Orde flushed a little. The last time he had supped at Jane Hubbard's, that was exactly what they did do.
“They are young, of course,” he said, “and you and I are very old and wise. But having a noisy, good time isn't such a great crime--or is it where you came from?”
The girl leaned forward, a sparkle of interest in her eyes.
“Are you and I going to fight?” she demanded.
“That depends on you,” returned Orde squarely, but with perfect good-humour.
They eyed each other a moment. Then the girl closed her fan, and leaned forward to touch him on the arm with it.
“You are quite right not to allow me to say mean things about your friends, and I am a nasty little snip.”
They both laughed. She leaned back with a movement of satisfaction, seeming to sink into the shadows.
“Yes. Everybody does something out West here. It's a disgrace not to do something, isn't it?”
“Oh, my business! I'm a river-driver just now.”
“A river-driver?” she repeated, once more leaning forward. “Why, I've just been hearing a great deal about you.”
“Oh!” said Orde. “Then you know what a drunken, swearing, worthless lot of bums and toughs we are, don't you?”
For the first time, in some subtle way she broke the poise of her attitude.
“There is Hell's Half-Mile,” she reminded him.
“Oh, yes,” said Orde bitterly, “there's Hell's Half-Mile! Whose fault is that? My rivermen's? My boys? Look here! I suppose you couldn't understand it, if you tried a month; but suppose you were working out in the woods nine months of the year, up early in the morning and in late at night. Suppose you slept in rough blankets, on the ground or in bunks, ate rough food, never saw a woman or a book, undertook work to scare your city men up a tree and into a hole too easy, risked your life a dozen times a week in a tangle of logs, with the big river roaring behind just waiting to swallow you; saw nothing but woods and river, were cold and hungry and wet, and so tired you couldn't wiggle, until you got to feeling like the thing was never going to end, and until you got sick of it way through in spite of the excitement and danger. And then suppose you hit town, where there were all the things you hadn't had--and the first thing you struck was Hell's Half-Mile. Say! you've seen water behind a jam, haven't you? Water-power's a good thing in a mill course, where it has wheels to turn; but behind a jam it just RIPS things--oh, what's the use talking! A girl doesn't know what it means. She couldn't understand.”