Her little fox-trimmed parka quit at the knees, showing the
daintiest pair of--I can't say it. Anyhow, they wasn't, they just
looked like 'em, only nicer.
She stood blinking at us, coming from the bright light outside, as
cute as a new faro box--then:
"Can you tell me where Mrs. Bradshaw lives? She's somewhere in this
district. I'm her daughter--come all the way from the States to see
her."
When she smiled I could hear the heart-strings of those ragged,
whiskered, frost-bit "mushers" bustin' like banjo strings.
"You know her, don't you?" she says, turning to me.
"Know her, Miss? Well, I should snort! There ain't a prospector on
the range that ain't proud and honoured to call her a friend.
Leastways, if there is I'll bust his block," and I cast the bad eye
on the boys to wise 'em up.
"Ain't I right, Joe?"
"Betcher dam life," says Joe, sort of over-stepping the conventions.
"Then tell me where her claim is. It's quite rich, and you must know
it," says she, appealing to him.
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