heahin' him talk, I reckon they cain't be many bad men left oveh on the Yukon side."

"Dan was prejudiced," laughed Connie. "I did just what any one else would have done—what good men any place you put 'em have got to do, or they wouldn't be good men. After I'd found out what had to be done, I figured out the most sensible way of doing it, and then did it the best I knew how. I haven't lived with men like you, and Dan, and MacDougall, and the rest of the boys, for nothing——"

"Jest yo' stick to that way of doin', son, an', I reckon, yo'll find it's about all the Bible yo'll need. But, about this heah trip to the outside. I sho' do hate to have yo' go down theh, so fah away from anywhehs. S'posin' somethin' should happen to yo'. Why, I don't reckon I eveh would get oveh blamin' myself fo' lettin' yo' go."

"Any one would think I was a girl," smiled the boy. "But I guess if I can take care of myself up here, I can handle anything I'll run up against outside."

"What do yo' aim to do when yo' get theah?"

"The first thing to do will be to hunt up Mike Gillum and have a talk with him. After that—well, after that, I'll know what to do."

Waseche Bill regarded the boy thoughtfully as he passed his fingers slowly back and forth along his stub-bearded jaw. "I reckon yo' will, son," he said, "from what I know of yo', an' what Dan done tol' me, comin' in, I jest reckon yo' will."

When Connie Morgan made up his mind to do a thing he went ahead and did it. Inside of a week the boy had packed his belongings, bid good-bye to Ten Bow, and started upon the journey that was to take him far from his beloved Alaska, and plunge him into a series of adventures that were to pit his wits against the machinations of a scheming corporation.

CHAPTER II
HURLEY

WITH a long-drawn whistle the great trans-continental train ground to a stop at a tiny town that consisted simply of a red painted depot, a huge water tank, and a dozen or more low frame houses, all set in a little clearing that was hardly more than a notch in one of the parallel walls of pine that flanked the railroad. The coloured porter glanced contemptuously out of the window and grumbled at the delay. The conductor, a dapper little man of blue cloth and brass buttons, bustled importantly down the aisle and disappeared through the front door. Connie raised his window and thrust his head out. Other heads protruded from the long line of coaches, and up in front men were swinging from the platforms to follow the trainmen who were hurrying along the sides of the cars. Connie arose and made his way forward. Two days and nights in the cramped quarters of the car had irked the boy, used as he was to the broad, open places, and it was with a distinct feeling of relief that he stepped to the ground and breathed deeply of the pine-scented air.

Upon a siding stood several flat cars onto which a dozen or more roughly dressed men were busily loading gear and equipment under the eye of a massive-framed giant of a man in a shirt of brilliant red flannel, who sat dangling his legs from the brake wheel of the end car. A stubble of red beard covered the man's undershot jaw. The visor of a greasy plush cap, pushed well back upon his head, disclosed a shock of red hair that nearly met the shaggy eyebrows beneath which a pair of beady eyes kept tab on the movements of his crew. To the stalled train, and the people who passed close beside him, the man gave no heed.

Up ahead, some eight or ten rods in front of the monster engine that snorted haughty impatience to be gone, Connie saw the cause of the delay. A heavy, underslung logging wagon was stalled directly upon the tracks, where it remained fixed despite the efforts of the four big horses that were doing their utmost to move it in response to a loud string of abusive epithets and the stinging blows of a heavy whip which the driver wielded with the strength of a husky arm. A little knot of men collected about the wagon, and the driver, abandoning his vain attempt to start the load, addressed the crowd in much the same language he had used toward the horses. The train conductor detached himself from the group and hurried toward the flat cars.

"Hey, you," he piped, "are you the boss of this crew?"

The huge man upon the brake wheel paid him no heed, but bawled a profane reprimand for the misplacing of a coil of wire line.

"Hey, you, I say!" The little conductor was fairly dancing impatience. "You, Red Shirt! Are you the boss?"

The wire line having been shifted to suit him, the other condescended to glare down into the speaker's face. "I be—what's loose with you?"

"Get that wagon off the track! You've held us up ten minutes already! It's an outrage!"

"Aw, go chase yersilf! Whad'ye s'pose I care av yer tin minutes late, er tin hours? I've got trouble av me own."

"You get that wagon moved!" shrilled the conductor. "You're obstructing the United States mail, and I guess you know what that means!"

Reference to the mail evidently had its effect upon the boss, for he very deliberately clambered to the ground and made his way leisurely toward the stalled wagon. "Give 'em the gad, ye wooden head! What ye standin' there wid yer mout' open fer?"

Once more the driver plied his heavy lash and the big horses strained to the pull. But it was of no avail.

"They can't pull it, it ain't any good to lick 'em," remonstrated the engineer. "A couple of you boys climb up and throw some of that stuff off. We can't wait here all day."

The fireman and the brakeman started toward the load, but were confronted by the glowering boss. "Ye'll lay off a couple av trips while they fan ye back to life, av ye try ut!" he roared. The men turned back, and the boss addressed the engineer. "You try ut yersilf, av ye're lookin' fer a nice little lay-off in the hospital. Av ye lay here all day an' all night, too, ye've got no wan but yer company to thank. Who was ut put them rotten planks in that crossin'?"

The engineer possessed a certain diplomacy that the conductor did not.

"Sure, it's the company's fault. Any one can see that. They've got no business putting such rotten stuff into their crossings. I didn't want to butt in on you, boss, but if you'll just tell us what to do we'll help you get her out of there."

The boss regarded him with suspicion, but the engineer was smiling in a friendly fashion, and the boss relented a little. "Mostly, ut's the company's fault, but partly ut's the fault av that blockhead av a teamster av mine. He ain't fit to drive a one-horse phaeton fer an owld woman's home." While the boss talked he eyed the stalled wagon critically. "Come over here, a couple av you sleepwalkers!" he called, and when the men arrived from the flat cars, he ripped out his orders almost in a breath. "Git a plank befront that hind wheel to ride ut over the rail! You frog-eater, there, that calls yersilf a teamster—cramp them horses hard to the right! Freeze onto the spokes now, ye sons av rest, an' ROLL 'ER!" Once more the big horses threw their weight into the traces, and the men on the wheels lifted and strained but the wagon held fast. For a single instant the boss looked on, then with a growl he leaped toward the wagon.

"Throw the leather into 'em, Frenchy! Make thim leaders pull up!" Catching the man on the offending hind wheel by the shoulder he sent him spinning to the side of the track, and