at John. Black Joe, who was sewing a button on his shirt, looked up and grunted in disdain as Taylor proudly held up the big trout. The cook took the fish to the kitchen. Harris sat down beside Goddard and talked. Two men remained with Black Joe who, as he drew thread clumsily through the flannel, resumed the talk that Taylor had interrupted.
"Now how about this here gold mine of Paul's, Joe?" one of them asked.
The old fellow puffed on his short pipe a moment and then began to talk, lowly, haltingly, and those with him listened eagerly, set smiles on their faces.
It was another Paul Bunion story, Taylor knew, and watched and tried to overhear, but could not. Ever since coming into this country he had heard references to Paul Bunion. "Who is he?" he had once asked Helen and she had laughed: "The Munchausen of the forests, my father used to say. He also said that Paul would be in living literature when the Baron was forgotten."
That explained little, but Taylor gathered that Joe was an authority on the great Paul. Night after night he would sit with a few of those who were beyond his scorn listening while he ambled on. He was jealous of his tales, though, reserving them only for those who stood in his favor. Taylor had tried to join the group, but each attempt had caused Joe to drop into sullen silence, broken only when John withdrew.
As he fussed aimlessly about his bunk, Taylor watched Harris and Goddard. Jim talked confidentially, easily, and Goddard listened, smoking a cigar, evidently flattered by the attention. But that attention was not wholly for Goddard because Harris' eyes went from time to time to
