'That queer-looking little chap in the corner is Billy Breen. How in
the world has he got here?' went on Mr. Craig. Queer-looking he was. A
little man, with a small head set on heavy square shoulders, long
arms, and huge hands that sprawled all over his body; altogether a most
ungainly specimen of humanity.
By this time Mrs. Mavor had finished with the manager, and was in the
centre of a group of miners. Her grand air was all gone, and she was
their comrade, their friend, one of themselves. Nor did she assume the
role of entertainer, but rather did she, with half-shy air, cast herself
upon their chivalry, and they were too truly gentlemen to fail her. It
is hard to make Western men, and especially old-timers, talk. But
this gift was hers, and it stirred my admiration to see her draw on a
grizzled veteran to tell how, twenty years ago, he had crossed the Great
Divide, and had seen and done what no longer fell to men to see or do
in these new days. And so she won the old-timer. But it was beautiful to
see the innocent guile with which she caught Billy Breen, and drew him
to her corner near the organ.
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