The Alaskan | Page 8

air.

CHAPTER III
Alan Holt was a man whom other men looked at twice. With women it was different. He
was, in no solitary sense of the word, a woman's man. He admired them in an abstract

way, and he was ready to fight for them, or die for them, at any time such a course
became necessary. But his sentiment was entirely a matter of common sense. His chivalry
was born and bred of the mountains and the open and had nothing in common with the
insincere brand which develops in the softer and more luxurious laps of civilization.
Years of aloneness had put their mark upon him. Men of the north, reading the lines,
understood what they meant. But only now and then could a woman possibly understand.
Yet if in any given moment a supreme physical crisis had come, women would have
turned instinctively in their helplessness to such a man as Alan Holt.
He possessed a vein of humor which few had been privileged to discover. The mountains
had taught him to laugh in silence. With him a chuckle meant as much as a riotous
outburst of merriment from another, and he could enjoy greatly without any noticeable
muscular disturbance of his face. And not always was his smile a reflection of humorous
thought. There were times when it betrayed another kind of thought more forcefully than
speech.
Because he understood fairly well and knew what he was, the present situation amused
him. He could not but see what an error in judgment Miss Standish had made in selecting
him, when compared with the intoxicating thrill she could easily have aroused by
choosing one of the young engineers as a companion in her evening adventure. He
chuckled. And Mary Standish, hearing the smothered note of amusement, gave to her
head that swift little birdlike tilt which he had observed once before, in the presence of
Captain Rifle. But she said nothing. As if challenged, she calmly took possession of his
arm.
Halfway round the deck, Alan began to sense the fact that there was a decidedly pleasant
flavor to the whole thing. The girl's hand did not merely touch his arm; it was snuggled
there confidently, and she was necessarily so close to him that when he looked down, the
glossy coils of her hair were within a few inches of his face. His nearness to her, together
with the soft pressure of her hand on his arm, was a jolt to his stoicism.
"It's not half bad," he expressed himself frankly. "I really believe I am going to enjoy
answering your questions, Miss Standish."
"Oh!" He felt the slim, little figure stiffen for an instant. "You thought--possibly--I might
be dangerous?"
"A little. I don't understand women. Collectively I think they are God's most wonderful
handiwork. Individually I don't care much about them. But you--"
She nodded approvingly. "That is very nice of you. But you needn't say I am different
from the others. I am not. All women are alike."
"Possibly--except in the way they dress their hair."
"You like mine?"
"Very much."

He was amazed at the admission, so much so that he puffed out a huge cloud of smoke
from his cigar in mental protest.
They had come to the smoking-room again. This was an innovation aboard the Nome.
There was no other like it in the Alaskan service, with its luxurious space, its comfortable
hospitality, and the observation parlor built at one end for those ladies who cared to sit
with their husbands while they smoked their after-dinner cigars.
"If you want to hear about Alaska and see some of its human make-up, let's go in," he
suggested. "I know; of no better place. Are you afraid of smoke?"
"No. If I were a man, I would smoke."
"Perhaps you do?"
"I do not. When I begin that, if you please, I shall bob my hair."
"Which would be a crime," he replied so earnestly that again he was surprised at himself.
Two or three ladies, with their escorts, were in the parlor when they entered. The huge
main room, covering a third of the aft deck, was blue with smoke. A score of men were
playing cards at round tables. Twice as many were gathered in groups, talking, while
others walked aimlessly up and down the carpeted floor. Here and there were men who
sat alone. A few were asleep, which made Alan look at his watch. Then he observed
Mary Standish studying the innumerable bundles of neatly rolled blankets that lay about.
One of them was at her feet. She touched it with her toe.
"What do they mean?" she asked.
"We are overloaded," he explained. "Alaskan steam-ships have no steerage passengers as
we generally know them. It isn't poverty that