It was our love of the Unerring Artistic Adjustment ofNature that inspired us. We could not give her over to alumberman， doubly accursed by wealth and provincialism.
We shuddered to think of Milly， with her voice modulatedand her elbows covered， pouring tea in the marble teepeeof a tree murderer. No！ In Cypher’s she belonged—in thebacon smoke， the cabbage perfume， the grand， Wagnerianchorus of hurled ironstone china and rattling casters.
Our fears must have been prophetic， for on that sameevening the wildwood discharged upon us Milly’s preordainedconfiscator—our fee to adjustment and order. But Alaskaand not Wisconsin bore the burden of the visitation.
We were at our supper of beef stew and dried appleswhen he trotted in as if on the heels of a dog team， andmade one of the mess at our table. With the freedom ofthe camps he assaulted our ears and claimed the fellowshipof men lost in the wilds of a hash house. We embracedhim as a specimen， and in three minutes we had all butdied for one another as friends.
He was rugged and bearded and wind-dried. He had justcome off the “trail，” he said， at one of the North Riverferries. I fancied I could see the snow dust of Chilcoot yetpowdering his shoulders. And then he strewed the tablewith the nuggets， stuffed ptarmigans， bead work and sealpelts of the returned Klondiker， and began to prate to usof his millions.
“Bank drafts for two millions，” was his summing up，“and a thousand a day piling up from my claims. And nowI want some beef stew and canned peaches. I never got offthe train since I mushed out of Seattle， and I’m hungry.
The stuff the niggers feed you on Pullmans don’t count.
You gentlemen order what you want.”
And then Milly loomed up with a thousand dishes onher bare arm—loomed up big and white and pink andawful as Mount Saint Elias—with a smile like day breakingin a gulch. And the Klondiker threw down his pelts andnuggets as dross， and let his jaw fall half-way， and staredat her. You could almost see the diamond tiaras on Milly’sbrow and the hand-embroidered silk Paris gowns that hemeant to buy for her.
At last the bollworm had attacked the cotton—thepoison ivy was reaching out its tendrils to entwine thesummer boarder—the millionaire lumberman， thinlydisguised as the Alaskan miner， was about to engulf ourMilly and upset Nature’s adjustment.
Kraft was the first to act. He leaped up and poundedthe Klondiker’s back. “Come out and drink，” he shouted.
“Drink first and eat afterward.” Judkins seized one armand I the other. Gaily， roaringly， irresistibly， in jolly-goodfellowstyle， we dragged him from the restaurant to acafé， stuffing his pockets with his embalmed birds andindigestible nuggets.
There he rumbled a roughly good-humoured protest.
“That’s the girl for my money，” he declared. “She can eatout of my skillet the rest of her life. Why， I never see sucha fine girl. I’m going back there and ask her to marry me. Iguess she won’t want to sling hash any more when she seesthe pile of dust I’ve got.”
“You’ll take another whiskey and milk now，” Kraftpersuaded， with Satan’s smile. “I thought you up-countryfellows were better sports.”
Kraft spent his puny store of coin at the bar and thengave Judkins and me such an appealing look that we wentdown to the last dime we had in toasting our guest.
Then， when our ammunition was gone and the Klondiker， still somewhat sober， began to babble again ofMilly， Kraft whispered into his ear such a polite， barbedinsult relating to people who were miserly with theirfunds， that the miner crashed down handful after handfulof silver and notes， calling for all the fluids in the world todrown the imputation.
Thus the work was accomplished. With his own guns wedrove him from the field. And then we had him carted toa distant small hotel and put to bed with his nuggets andbaby seal-skins stuffed around him.
“He will never find Cypher’s again，” said Kraft. “Hewill propose to the first white apron he sees in a dairyrestaurant to-morrow. And Milly—I mean the NaturalAdjustment—is saved！”
And back to Cypher’s went we three， and， findingcustomers scarce， we joined hands and did an Indian dancewith Milly in the centre.
This， I say， happened three years ago. And about thattime a little luck descended upon us three， and we wereenabled to buy costlier and less wholesome food thanCypher’s. Our paths separated， and I saw Kraft no moreand Judkins seldom.
But， as I said， I saw a painting the other day that wassold for 5，000. The title was “Boadicea，” and the figureseemed to fill all out-of-doors. But of all the picture’sadmirers who stood before it， I believe I was the only onewho longed for Boadicea to stalk from her frame， bringingme corned-beef hash with poached egg.
I hurried away to see Kraft. His satanic eyes were thesame， his hair was worse tangled， but his clothes had beenmade by a tailor.
“I didn’t know，” I said to him.
“We’ve bought a cottage in the Bronx with the money，”
said he. “Any evening at 7.”
“Then，” said I， “when you led us a gainst thelumberman—the—Klondiker—it wasn’t altogether onaccount of the Unerring Artistic Adjustment of Nature？”
“Well， not altogether，” said Kraft， with a grin.
