He took his pipe out of his mouth. "Miss Miller," he announced casually, as if he were saying nothing very extraordinary, "has got any man I know beaten to a frazzle, when it comes to pluck." He stopped a second. "I've knocked around a good deal," he went on, "with all sorts and kinds—Indian guides, Finlanders, Swedes, toughened, weathered old customers—but I don't know that I've ever run up against any one who had more to fuss about, and yet made less of a fuss about it, than Miss Miller." The women's mouths were figuratively hanging open. "If we had had to starve to death, she'd have been sandy about it," he tucked in. He pulled on his pipe a moment reflectively. Nobody spoke. Then, "Miss Miller is as good a sport as I ever hope to meet," he announced quietly.
"Oh, but you didn't mean it," belittled Edna an hour later, when he sought her up-stairs. (For, "I've just been telling Miss Miller the things you've been saying about her," gayly sung out the facetious man as Bord came into the room, and as he went out.) "You didn't mean it," she laughed, alone with Mr. Mathewson. "You said it just to be nice—to make up for that wink. I understood. You didn't mean it."
"I did mean it," replied Bord, his eyes fastened upon her.
