North of Fifty-Three

North of Fifty-Three, by
Bertrand W.

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Sinclair, Illustrated by Anton Otto Fischer
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Title: North of Fifty-Three
Author: Bertrand W. Sinclair

Release Date: October 9, 2006 [eBook #19510]
Language: English
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FIFTY-THREE***
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NORTH OF FIFTY-THREE
by
BERTRAND W. SINCLAIR
Author of The Land of Frozen Suns, Etc.
With Illustrations by Anton Otto Fischer

[Frontispiece: "Oh!" she gasped. "Why--it's gold!"]

New York Grosset & Dunlap Publishers Copyright, 1914, by Little,
Brown, and Company. All rights reserved.

CONTENTS
CHAPTERS
I. WHICH INTRODUCES A LADY AND TWO GENTLEMEN II.
HEART, HAND--AND POCKETBOOK III. "I DO GIVE AND
BEQUEATH" IV. AN EXPLANATION DEMANDED V. THE WAY
OF THE WORLD AT LARGE VI. CARIBOO MEADOWS VII. A
DIFFERENT SORT OF MAN VIII. IN DEEP WATER IX. THE
HOUSE THAT JACK BUILT X. A LITTLE PERSONAL HISTORY
XI. WINTER--AND A TRUCE XII. THE FIRES OF SPRING XIII.
THE OUT TRAIL XIV. THE DRONE OF THE HIVE XV. AN
ENDING AND A BEGINNING XVI. A BRIEF TIME OF

PLANNING XVII. EN ROUTE XVIII. THE WINTERING PLACE
XIX. FOUR WALLS AND A ROOF XX. BOREAS CHANTS HIS
LAY XXI. JACK FROST WITHDRAWS XXII. THE STRIKE XXIII.
THE STRESS OF THE TRAIL XXIV. NEIGHBORS XXV. THE
DOLLAR CHASERS XXVI. A BUSINESS PROPOSITION XXVII.
A BUSINESS JOURNEY XXVIII. THE BOMB XXIX. THE NOTE
DISCORDANT XXX. THE AFTERMATH XXXI. A LETTER FROM
BILL XXXII. THE SPUR XXXIII. HOME AGAIN XXXIV. AFTER
MANY DAYS

List of Illustrations
"Oh!" she gasped. "Why--it's gold!" . . . . . . Frontispiece
Roaring Bill Wagstaff stood within five feet of her, resting one hand on
the muzzle of his grounded rifle
"Hurt? No," he murmured; "I'm just plain scared."
Bill stood before the fireplace, his shaggy fur cap pushed far back on
his head

NORTH OF FIFTY-THREE
CHAPTER I
WHICH INTRODUCES A LADY AND TWO GENTLEMEN
Dressed in a plain white shirt waist and an equally plain black cloth
skirt, Miss Hazel Weir, on week days, was merely a unit in the office
force of Harrington & Bush, implement manufacturers. Neither in
personality nor in garb would a casual glance have differentiated her
from the other female units, occupied at various desks. A close
observer might have noticed that she was a bit younger than the others,
possessed of a clear skin and large eyes that seemed to hold all the

shades between purple and gray--eyes, moreover, that had not yet
begun to weaken from long application to clerical work. A business
office is no place for a woman to parade her personal charms. The
measure of her worth there is simply the measure of her efficiency at
her machine or ledgers. So that if any member of the firm had been
asked what sort of a girl Miss Hazel Weir might be, he would probably
have replied--and with utmost truth--that Miss Weir was a capable
stenographer.
But when Saturday evening released Miss Hazel Weir from the plain
brick office building, she became, until she donned her working clothes
at seven A. M. Monday morning, quite a different sort of a person. In
other words, she chucked the plain shirt waist and the plain skirt into
the discard, got into such a dress as a normal girl of twenty-two
delights to put on, and devoted a half hour or so to "doing" her hair.
Which naturally effected a more or less complete transformation, a
transformation that was subjective as well as purely objective. For Miss
Weir then became an entity at which few persons of either sex failed to
take a second glance.
Upon a certain Saturday night Miss Weir came home from an informal
little party escorted by a young man. They stopped at the front gate.
"I'll be here at ten sharp," said he. "And you get a good beauty sleep
to-night, Hazel. That confounded office! I hate to think of you drudging
away at it. I wish we were ready to--"
"Oh, bother the office!" she replied lightly. "I don't think of it out of
office hours. Anyway, I don't mind. It doesn't tire me. I will be ready at
ten this time. Good night, dear."
"Good night, Hazie," he whispered. "Here's a kiss to dream on."
Miss Weir broke away from him