“In the employ of the Chartered Company, I suppose?” said Peter, looking into the fire he had made.

“No,” said the stranger; “I have nothing to do with the Chartered Company.”

“Oh,” said Peter, “I don’t wonder, then, that things aren’t looking very smart with you! There’s not too much cakes and ale up here for those that do belong to it, if they’re not big-wigs, and none at all for those who don’t. I tried it when I first came up here. I was with a prospector who was hooked on to the Company somehow, but I worked on my own account for the prospector by the day. I tell you what, it’s not the men who work up here who make the money; it’s the big-wigs who get the concessions!”

Peter felt exhilarated by the presence of the stranger. That one unarmed man had robbed him of all fear.

Seeing that the stranger did not take up the thread of conversation, he went on after a time: “It wasn’t such a bad life, though. I only wish I was back there again. I had two huts to myself, and a couple of nigger girls. It’s better fun,” said Peter, after a while, “having these black women than whites. The whites you’ve got to support, but the niggers support you! And when you’ve done with them you can just get rid of them. I’m all for the nigger gals.” Peter laughed. But the stranger sat motionless with his arms about his knees.

“You got any girls?” said Peter. “Care for niggers?”

“I love all women,” said the stranger, refolding his arms about his knees.