transcribed from the macmillan and co. edition by david price, email ccx @pglaf.org love of life and other stories by jack london author of "the call of the wild," "people of the abyss," etc., etc. new york published for the review of reviews company by the macmillan company london: macmillan and co., ltd. _all rights reserved_ copyright, , by the macmillan company. {he watched the play of life before him: p .jpg} set up and electrotyped. published september, . reprinted december, ; december, . october, . love of life "this out of all will remain-- they have lived and have tossed: so much of the game will be gain, though the gold of the dice has been lost." they limped painfully down the bank, and once the foremost of the two men staggered among the rough-strewn rocks. they were tired and weak, and their faces had the drawn expression of patience which comes of hardship long endured. they were heavily burdened with blanket packs which were strapped to their shoulders. head-straps, passing across the forehead, helped support these packs. each man carried a rifle. they walked in a stooped posture, the shoulders well forward, the head still farther forward, the eyes bent upon the ground. "i wish we had just about two of them cartridges that's layin' in that cache of ourn," said the second man. his voice was utterly and drearily expressionless. he spoke without enthusiasm; and the first man, limping into the milky stream that foamed over the rocks, vouchsafed no reply. the other man followed at his heels. they did not remove their foot-gear, though the water was icy cold--so cold that their ankles ached and their feet went numb. in places the water dashed against their knees, and both men staggered for footing. the man who followed slipped on a smooth boulder, nearly fell, but recovered himself with a violent effort, at the same time uttering a sharp exclamation of pain. he seemed faint and dizzy and put out his free hand while he reeled, as though seeking support against the air. when he had steadied himself he stepped forward, but reeled again and nearly fell. then he stood still and looked at the other man, who had never turned his head. the man stood still for fully a minute, as though debating with himself. then he called out: "i say, bill, i've sprained my ankle." bill staggered on through the milky water. he did not look around. the man watched him go, and though his face was expressionless as ever, his eyes were like the eyes of a wounded deer. the other man limped up the farther bank and continued straight on without looking back. the man in the stream watched him. his lips trembled a little, so that the rough thatch of brown hair which covered them was visibly agitated. his tongue even strayed out to moisten them. "bill!" he cried out. it was the pleading cry of a strong man in distress, but bill's head did not turn. the man watched him go, limping grotesquely and lurching forward with stammering gait up the slow slope toward the soft sky-line of the low-lying hill. he watched him go till he passed over the crest and disappeared. then he turned his gaze and slowly took in the circle of the world that remained to him now that bill was gone. near the horizon the sun was smouldering dimly, almost obscured by formless mists and vapors, which gave an impression of mass and density without outline or tangibility. the man pulled out his watch, the while resting his weight on one leg. it was four o'clock, and as the season was near the last of july or first of august,--he did not know the precise date within a week or two,--he knew that the sun roughly marked the northwest. he looked to the south and knew that somewhere beyond those bleak hills lay the great bear lake; also, he knew that in that direction the arctic circle cut its forbidding way across the canadian barrens. this stream in which he stood was a feeder to the coppermine river, which in turn flowed north and emptied into coronation gulf and the arctic ocean. he had never been there, but he had seen it, once, on a hudson bay company chart. again his gaze completed the circle of the world about him. it was not a heartening spectacle. everywhere was soft sky-line. the hills were all low-lying. there were no trees, no shrubs, no grasses--naught but a tremendous and terrible desolation that sent fear swiftly dawning into his eyes. "bill!" he whispered, once and twice; "bill!" he cowered in the midst of the milky water, as though the vastness were pressing in upon him with overwhelming force, brutally crushing him with its complacent awfulness. he began to shake as with an ague-fit, till the gun fell from his hand with a splash. this served to rouse him. he fought with his fear and pulled himself together, groping in the water and recovering the weapon. he hitched his pack farther over on his left shoulder, so as to take a portion of its weight from off the injured ankle. then he proceeded, slowly and carefully, wincing with pain, to the bank. he did not stop. with a desperation that was madness, unmindful of the pain, he hurried up the slope to the crest of the hill over which his comrade had disappeared--more grotesque and comical by far than that limping, jerking comrade. but at the crest he saw a shallow valley, empty of life. he fought with his fear again, overcame it, hitched the pack still farther over on his left shoulder, and lurched on down the slope. the bottom of the valley was soggy with water, which the thick moss held, spongelike, close to the surface. this water squirted out from under his feet at every step, and each time he lifted a foot the action culminated in a sucking sound as the wet moss reluctantly released its grip. he picked his way from muskeg to muskeg, and followed the other man's footsteps along and across the rocky ledges which thrust like islets through the sea of moss. though alone, he was not lost. farther on he knew he would come to where dead spruce and fir, very small and weazened, bordered the shore of a little lake, the _titchin-nichilie_, in the tongue of the country, the "land of little sticks." and into that lake flowed a small stream, the water of which was not milky. there was rush-grass on that stream--this he remembered well--but no timber, and he would follow it till its first trickle ceased at a divide. he would cross this divide to the first trickle of another stream, flowing to the west, which he would follow until it emptied into the river dease, and here he would find a cache under an upturned canoe and piled over with many rocks. and in this cache would be ammunition for his empty gun, fish-hooks and lines, a small net--all the utilities for the killing and snaring of food. also, he would find flour,--not much,--a piece of bacon, and some beans. bill would be waiting for him there, and they would paddle away south down the dease to the great bear lake. and south across the lake they would go, ever south, till they gained the mackenzie. and south, still south, they would go, while the winter raced vainly after them, and the ice formed in the eddies, and the days grew chill and crisp, south to some warm hudson bay company post, where timber grew tall and generous and there was grub without end. these were the thoughts of the man as he strove onward. but hard as he strove with his body, he strove equally hard with his mind, trying to think that bill had not deserted him, that bill would surely wait for him at the cache. he was compelled to think this thought, or else there would not be any use to strive, and he would have lain down and died. and as the dim ball of the sun sank slowly into the northwest he covered every inch--and many times--of his and bill's flight south before the downcoming winter. and he conned the grub of the cache and the grub of the hudson bay company post over and over again. he had not eaten for two days; for a far longer time he had not had all he wanted to eat. often he stooped and picked pale muskeg berries, put them into his mouth, and chewed and swallowed them. a muskeg berry is a bit of seed enclosed in a bit of water. in the mouth the water melts away and the seed chews sharp and bitter. the man knew there was no nourishment in the berries, but he chewed them patiently with a hope greater than knowledge and defying experience. at nine o'clock he stubbed his toe on a rocky ledge, and from sheer weariness and weakness staggered and fell. he lay for some time, without movement, on his side. then he slipped out of the pack-straps and clumsily dragged himself into a sitting posture. it was not yet dark, and in the lingering twilight he groped about among the rocks for shreds of dry moss. when he had gathered a heap he built a fire,--a smouldering, smudgy fire,--and put a tin pot of water on to boil. he unwrapped his pack and the first thing he did was to count his matches. there were sixty-seven. he counted them three times to make sure. he divided them into several portions, wrapping them in oil paper, disposing of one bunch in his empty tobacco pouch, of another bunch in the inside band of his battered hat, of a third bunch under his shirt on the chest. this accomplished, a panic came upon him, and he unwrapped them all and counted them again. there were still sixty-seven. he dried his wet foot-gear by the fire. the moccasins were in soggy shreds. the blanket socks were worn through in places, and his feet were raw and bleeding. his ankle was throbbing, and he gave it an examination. it had swollen to the size of his knee. he tore a long strip from one of his two blankets and bound the ankle tightly. he tore other strips and bound them about his feet to serve for both moccasins and socks. then he drank the pot of water, steaming hot, wound his watch, and crawled between his blankets. he slept like a dead man. the brief darkness around midnight came and went. the sun arose in the northeast--at least the day dawned in that quarter, for the sun was hidden by gray clouds. at six o'clock he awoke, quietly lying on his back. he gazed straight up into the gray sky and knew that he was hungry. as he rolled over on his elbow he was startled by a loud snort, and saw a bull caribou regarding him with alert curiosity. the animal was not mere than fifty feet away, and instantly into the man's mind leaped the vision and the savor of a caribou steak sizzling and frying over a fire. mechanically he reached for the empty gun, drew a bead, and pulled the trigger. the bull snorted and leaped away, his hoofs rattling and clattering as he fled across the ledges. the man cursed and flung the empty gun from him. he groaned aloud as he started to drag himself to his feet. it was a slow and arduous task. his joints were like rusty hinges. they worked harshly in their sockets, with much friction, and each bending or unbending was accomplished only through a sheer exertion of will. when he finally gained his feet, another minute or so was consumed in straightening up, so that he could stand erect as a man should stand. he crawled up a small knoll and surveyed the prospect. there were no trees, no bushes, nothing but a gray sea of moss scarcely diversified by gray rocks, gray lakelets, and gray streamlets. the sky was gray. there was no sun nor hint of sun. he had no idea of north, and he had forgotten the way he had come to this spot the night before. but he was not lost. he knew that. soon he would come to the land of the little sticks. he felt that it lay off to the left somewhere, not far--possibly just over the next low hill. he went back to put his pack into shape for travelling. he assured himself of the existence of his three separate parcels of matches, though he did not stop to count them. but he did linger, debating, over a squat moose-hide sack. it was not large. he could hide it under his two hands. he knew that it weighed fifteen pounds,--as much as all the rest of the pack,--and it worried him. he finally set it to one side and proceeded to roll the pack. he paused to gaze at the squat moose-hide sack. he picked it up hastily with a defiant glance about him, as though the desolation were trying to rob him of it; and when he rose to his feet to stagger on into the day, it was included in the pack on his back. he bore away to the left, stopping now and again to eat muskeg berries. his ankle had stiffened, his limp was more pronounced, but the pain of it was as nothing compared with the pain of his stomach. the hunger pangs were sharp. they gnawed and gnawed until he could not keep his mind steady on the course he must pursue to gain the land of little sticks. the muskeg berries did not allay this gnawing, while they made his tongue and the roof of his mouth sore with their irritating bite. he came upon a valley where rock ptarmigan rose on whirring wings from the ledges and muskegs. ker--ker--ker was the cry they made. he threw stones at them, but could not hit them. he placed his pack on the ground and stalked them as a cat stalks a sparrow. the sharp rocks cut through his pants' legs till his knees left a trail of blood; but the hurt was lost in the hurt of his hunger. he squirmed over the wet moss, saturating his clothes and chilling his body; but he was not aware of it, so great was his fever for food. and always the ptarmigan rose, whirring, before him, till their ker--ker--ker became a mock to him, and he cursed them and cried aloud at them with their own cry. once he crawled upon one that must have been asleep. he did not see it till it shot up in his face from its rocky nook. he made a clutch as startled as was the rise of the ptarmigan, and there remained in his hand three tail-feathers. as he watched its flight he hated it, as though it had done him some terrible wrong. then he returned and shouldered his pack. as the day wore along he came into valleys or swales where game was more plentiful. a band of caribou passed by, twenty and odd animals, tantalizingly within rifle range. he felt a wild desire to run after them, a certitude that he could run them down. a black fox came toward him, carrying a ptarmigan in his mouth. the man shouted. it was a fearful cry, but the fox, leaping away in fright, did not drop the ptarmigan. late in the afternoon he followed a stream, milky with lime, which ran through sparse patches of rush-grass. grasping these rushes firmly near the root, he pulled up what resembled a young onion-sprout no larger than a shingle-nail. it was tender, and his teeth sank into it with a crunch that promised deliciously of food. but its fibers were tough. it was composed of stringy filaments saturated with water, like the berries, and devoid of nourishment. he threw off his pack and went into the rush-grass on hands and knees, crunching and munching, like some bovine creature. he was very weary and often wished to rest--to lie down and sleep; but he was continually driven on--not so much by his desire to gain the land of little sticks as by his hunger. he searched little ponds for frogs and dug up the earth with his nails for worms, though he knew in spite that neither frogs nor worms existed so far north. he looked into every pool of water vainly, until, as the long twilight came on, he discovered a solitary fish, the size of a minnow, in such a pool. he plunged his arm in up to the shoulder, but it eluded him. he reached for it with both hands and stirred up the milky mud at the bottom. in his excitement he fell in, wetting himself to the waist. then the water was too muddy to admit of his seeing the fish, and he was compelled to wait until the sediment had settled. the pursuit was renewed, till the water was again muddied. but he could not wait. he unstrapped the tin bucket and began to bale the pool. he baled wildly at first, splashing himself and flinging the water so short a distance that it ran back into the pool. he worked more carefully, striving to be cool, though his heart was pounding against his chest and his hands were trembling. at the end of half an hour the pool was nearly dry. not a cupful of water remained. and there was no fish. he found a hidden crevice among the stones through which it had escaped to the adjoining and larger pool--a pool which he could not empty in a night and a day. had he known of the crevice, he could have closed it with a rock at the beginning and the fish would have been his. thus he thought, and crumpled up and sank down upon the wet earth. at first he cried softly to himself, then he cried loudly to the pitiless desolation that ringed him around; and for a long time after he was shaken by great dry sobs. he built a fire and warmed himself by drinking quarts of hot water, and made camp on a rocky ledge in the same fashion he had the night before. the last thing he did was to see that his matches were dry and to wind his watch. the blankets were wet and clammy. his ankle pulsed with pain. but he knew only that he was hungry, and through his restless sleep he dreamed of feasts and banquets and of food served and spread in all imaginable ways. he awoke chilled and sick. there was no sun. the gray of earth and sky had become deeper, more profound. a raw wind was blowing, and the first flurries of snow were whitening the hilltops. the air about him thickened and grew white while he made a fire and boiled more water. it was wet snow, half rain, and the flakes were large and soggy. at first they melted as soon as they came in contact with the earth, but ever more fell, covering the ground, putting out the fire, spoiling his supply of moss-fuel. this was a signal for him to strap on his pack and stumble onward, he knew not where. he was not concerned with the land of little sticks, nor with bill and the cache under the upturned canoe by the river dease. he was mastered by the verb "to eat." he was hunger-mad. he took no heed of the course he pursued, so long as that course led him through the swale bottoms. he felt his way through the wet snow to the watery muskeg berries, and went by feel as he pulled up the rush-grass by the roots. but it was tasteless stuff and did not satisfy. he found a weed that tasted sour and he ate all he could find of it, which was not much, for it was a creeping growth, easily hidden under the several inches of snow. he had no fire that night, nor hot water, and crawled under his blanket to sleep the broken hunger-sleep. the snow turned into a cold rain. he awakened many times to feel it falling on his upturned face. day came--a gray day and no sun. it had ceased raining. the keenness of his hunger had departed. sensibility, as far as concerned the yearning for food, had been exhausted. there was a dull, heavy ache in his stomach, but it did not bother him so much. he was more rational, and once more he was chiefly interested in the land of little sticks and the cache by the river dease. he ripped the remnant of one of his blankets into strips and bound his bleeding feet. also, he recinched the injured ankle and prepared himself for a day of travel. when he came to his pack, he paused long over the squat moose-hide sack, but in the end it went with him. the snow had melted under the rain, and only the hilltops showed white. the sun came out, and he succeeded in locating the points of the compass, though he knew now that he was lost. perhaps, in his previous days' wanderings, he had edged away too far to the left. he now bore off to the right to counteract the possible deviation from his true course. though the hunger pangs were no longer so exquisite, he realized that he was weak. he was compelled to pause for frequent rests, when he attacked the muskeg berries and rush-grass patches. his tongue felt dry and large, as though covered with a fine hairy growth, and it tasted bitter in his mouth. his heart gave him a great deal of trouble. when he had travelled a few minutes it would begin a remorseless thump, thump, thump, and then leap up and away in a painful flutter of beats that choked him and made him go faint and dizzy. in the middle of the day he found two minnows in a large pool. it was impossible to bale it, but he was calmer now and managed to catch them in his tin bucket. they were no longer than his little finger, but he was not particularly hungry. the dull ache in his stomach had been growing duller and fainter. it seemed almost that his stomach was dozing. he ate the fish raw, masticating with painstaking care, for the eating was an act of pure reason. while he had no desire to eat, he knew that he must eat to live. in the evening he caught three more minnows, eating two and saving the third for breakfast. the sun had dried stray shreds of moss, and he was able to warm himself with hot water. he had not covered more than ten miles that day; and the next day, travelling whenever his heart permitted him, he covered no more than five miles. but his stomach did not give him the slightest uneasiness. it had gone to sleep. he was in a strange country, too, and the caribou were growing more plentiful, also the wolves. often their yelps drifted across the desolation, and once he saw three of them slinking away before his path. another night; and in the morning, being more rational, he untied the leather string that fastened the squat moose-hide sack. from its open mouth poured a yellow stream of coarse gold-dust and nuggets. he roughly divided the gold in halves, caching one half on a prominent ledge, wrapped in a piece of blanket, and returning the other half to the sack. he also began to use strips of the one remaining blanket for his feet. he still clung to his gun, for there were cartridges in that cache by the river dease. this was a day of fog, and this day hunger awoke in him again. he was very weak and was afflicted with a giddiness which at times blinded him. it was no uncommon thing now for him to stumble and fall; and stumbling once, he fell squarely into a ptarmigan nest. there were four newly hatched chicks, a day old--little specks of pulsating life no more than a mouthful; and he ate them ravenously, thrusting them alive into his mouth and crunching them like egg-shells between his teeth. the mother ptarmigan beat about him with great outcry. he used his gun as a club with which to knock her over, but she dodged out of reach. he threw stones at her and with one chance shot broke a wing. then she fluttered away, running, trailing the broken wing, with him in pursuit. the little chicks had no more than whetted his appetite. he hopped and bobbed clumsily along on his injured ankle, throwing stones and screaming hoarsely at times; at other times hopping and bobbing silently along, picking himself up grimly and patiently when he fell, or rubbing his eyes with his hand when the giddiness threatened to overpower him. the chase led him across swampy ground in the bottom of the valley, and he came upon footprints in the soggy moss. they were not his own--he could see that. they must be bill's. but he could not stop, for the mother ptarmigan was running on. he would catch her first, then he would return and investigate. he exhausted the mother ptarmigan; but he exhausted himself. she lay panting on her side. he lay panting on his side, a dozen feet away, unable to crawl to her. and as he recovered she recovered, fluttering out of reach as his hungry hand went out to her. the chase was resumed. night settled down and she escaped. he stumbled from weakness and pitched head foremost on his face, cutting his cheek, his pack upon his back. he did not move for a long while; then he rolled over on his side, wound his watch, and lay there until morning. another day of fog. half of his last blanket had gone into foot-wrappings. he failed to pick up bill's trail. it did not matter. his hunger was driving him too compellingly--only--only he wondered if bill, too, were lost. by midday the irk of his pack became too oppressive. again he divided the gold, this time merely spilling half of it on the ground. in the afternoon he threw the rest of it away, there remaining to him only the half-blanket, the tin bucket, and the rifle. an hallucination began to trouble him. he felt confident that one cartridge remained to him. it was in the chamber of the rifle and he had overlooked it. on the other hand, he knew all the time that the chamber was empty. but the hallucination persisted. he fought it off for hours, then threw his rifle open and was confronted with emptiness. the disappointment was as bitter as though he had really expected to find the cartridge. he plodded on for half an hour, when the hallucination arose again. again he fought it, and still it persisted, till for very relief he opened his rifle to unconvince himself. at times his mind wandered farther afield, and he plodded on, a mere automaton, strange conceits and whimsicalities gnawing at his brain like worms. but these excursions out of the real were of brief duration, for ever the pangs of the hunger-bite called him back. he was jerked back abruptly once from such an excursion by a sight that caused him nearly to faint. he reeled and swayed, doddering like a drunken man to keep from falling. before him stood a horse. a horse! he could not believe his eyes. a thick mist was in them, intershot with sparkling points of light. he rubbed his eyes savagely to clear his vision, and beheld, not a horse, but a great brown bear. the animal was studying him with bellicose curiosity. the man had brought his gun halfway to his shoulder before he realized. he lowered it and drew his hunting-knife from its beaded sheath at his hip. before him was meat and life. he ran his thumb along the edge of his knife. it was sharp. the point was sharp. he would fling himself upon the bear and kill it. but his heart began its warning thump, thump, thump. then followed the wild upward leap and tattoo of flutters, the pressing as of an iron band about his forehead, the creeping of the dizziness into his brain. his desperate courage was evicted by a great surge of fear. in his weakness, what if the animal attacked him? he drew himself up to his most imposing stature, gripping the knife and staring hard at the bear. the bear advanced clumsily a couple of steps, reared up, and gave vent to a tentative growl. if the man ran, he would run after him; but the man did not run. he was animated now with the courage of fear. he, too, growled, savagely, terribly, voicing the fear that is to life germane and that lies twisted about life's deepest roots. the bear edged away to one side, growling menacingly, himself appalled by this mysterious creature that appeared upright and unafraid. but the man did not move. he stood like a statue till the danger was past, when he yielded to a fit of trembling and sank down into the wet moss. he pulled himself together and went on, afraid now in a new way. it was not the fear that he should die passively from lack of food, but that he should be destroyed violently before starvation had exhausted the last particle of the endeavor in him that made toward surviving. there were the wolves. back and forth across the desolation drifted their howls, weaving the very air into a fabric of menace that was so tangible that he found himself, arms in the air, pressing it back from him as it might be the walls of a wind-blown tent. now and again the wolves, in packs of two and three, crossed his path. but they sheered clear of him. they were not in sufficient numbers, and besides they were hunting the caribou, which did not battle, while this strange creature that walked erect might scratch and bite. in the late afternoon he came upon scattered bones where the wolves had made a kill. the debris had been a caribou calf an hour before, squawking and running and very much alive. he contemplated the bones, clean-picked and polished, pink with the cell-life in them which had not yet died. could it possibly be that he might be that ere the day was done! such was life, eh? a vain and fleeting thing. it was only life that pained. there was no hurt in death. to die was to sleep. it meant cessation, rest. then why was he not content to die? but he did not moralize long. he was squatting in the moss, a bone in his mouth, sucking at the shreds of life that still dyed it faintly pink. the sweet meaty taste, thin and elusive almost as a memory, maddened him. he closed his jaws on the bones and crunched. sometimes it was the bone that broke, sometimes his teeth. then he crushed the bones between rocks, pounded them to a pulp, and swallowed them. he pounded his fingers, too, in his haste, and yet found a moment in which to feel surprise at the fact that his fingers did not hurt much when caught under the descending rock. came frightful days of snow and rain. he did not know when he made camp, when he broke camp. he travelled in the night as much as in the day. he rested wherever he fell, crawled on whenever the dying life in him flickered up and burned less dimly. he, as a man, no longer strove. it was the life in him, unwilling to die, that drove him on. he did not suffer. his nerves had become blunted, numb, while his mind was filled with weird visions and delicious dreams. but ever he sucked and chewed on the crushed bones of the caribou calf, the least remnants of which he had gathered up and carried with him. he crossed no more hills or divides, but automatically followed a large stream which flowed through a wide and shallow valley. he did not see this stream nor this valley. he saw nothing save visions. soul and body walked or crawled side by side, yet apart, so slender was the thread that bound them. he awoke in his right mind, lying on his back on a rocky ledge. the sun was shining bright and warm. afar off he heard the squawking of caribou calves. he was aware of vague memories of rain and wind and snow, but whether he had been beaten by the storm for two days or two weeks he did not know. for some time he lay without movement, the genial sunshine pouring upon him and saturating his miserable body with its warmth. a fine day, he thought. perhaps he could manage to locate himself. by a painful effort he rolled over on his side. below him flowed a wide and sluggish river. its unfamiliarity puzzled him. slowly he followed it with his eyes, winding in wide sweeps among the bleak, bare hills, bleaker and barer and lower-lying than any hills he had yet encountered. slowly, deliberately, without excitement or more than the most casual interest, he followed the course of the strange stream toward the sky-line and saw it emptying into a bright and shining sea. he was still unexcited. most unusual, he thought, a vision or a mirage--more likely a vision, a trick of his disordered mind. he was confirmed in this by sight of a ship lying at anchor in the midst of the shining sea. he closed his eyes for a while, then opened them. strange how the vision persisted! yet not strange. he knew there were no seas or ships in the heart of the barren lands, just as he had known there was no cartridge in the empty rifle. he heard a snuffle behind him--a half-choking gasp or cough. very slowly, because of his exceeding weakness and stiffness, he rolled over on his other side. he could see nothing near at hand, but he waited patiently. again came the snuffle and cough, and outlined between two jagged rocks not a score of feet away he made out the gray head of a wolf. the sharp ears were not pricked so sharply as he had seen them on other wolves; the eyes were bleared and bloodshot, the head seemed to droop limply and forlornly. the animal blinked continually in the sunshine. it seemed sick. as he looked it snuffled and coughed again. this, at least, was real, he thought, and turned on the other side so that he might see the reality of the world which had been veiled from him before by the vision. but the sea still shone in the distance and the ship was plainly discernible. was it reality, after all? he closed his eyes for a long while and thought, and then it came to him. he had been making north by east, away from the dease divide and into the coppermine valley. this wide and sluggish river was the coppermine. that shining sea was the arctic ocean. that ship was a whaler, strayed east, far east, from the mouth of the mackenzie, and it was lying at anchor in coronation gulf. he remembered the hudson bay company chart he had seen long ago, and it was all clear and reasonable to him. he sat up and turned his attention to immediate affairs. he had worn through the blanket-wrappings, and his feet were shapeless lumps of raw meat. his last blanket was gone. rifle and knife were both missing. he had lost his hat somewhere, with the bunch of matches in the band, but the matches against his chest were safe and dry inside the tobacco pouch and oil paper. he looked at his watch. it marked eleven o'clock and was still running. evidently he had kept it wound. he was calm and collected. though extremely weak, he had no sensation of pain. he was not hungry. the thought of food was not even pleasant to him, and whatever he did was done by his reason alone. he ripped off his pants' legs to the knees and bound them about his feet. somehow he had succeeded in retaining the tin bucket. he would have some hot water before he began what he foresaw was to be a terrible journey to the ship. his movements were slow. he shook as with a palsy. when he started to collect dry moss, he found he could not rise to his feet. he tried again and again, then contented himself with crawling about on hands and knees. once he crawled near to the sick wolf. the animal dragged itself reluctantly out of his way, licking its chops with a tongue which seemed hardly to have the strength to curl. the man noticed that the tongue was not the customary healthy red. it was a yellowish brown and seemed coated with a rough and half-dry mucus. after he had drunk a quart of hot water the man found he was able to stand, and even to walk as well as a dying man might be supposed to walk. every minute or so he was compelled to rest. his steps were feeble and uncertain, just as the wolf's that trailed him were feeble and uncertain; and that night, when the shining sea was blotted out by blackness, he knew he was nearer to it by no more than four miles. throughout the night he heard the cough of the sick wolf, and now and then the squawking of the caribou calves. there was life all around him, but it was strong life, very much alive and well, and he knew the sick wolf clung to the sick man's trail in the hope that the man would die first. in the morning, on opening his eyes, he beheld it regarding him with a wistful and hungry stare. it stood crouched, with tail between its legs, like a miserable and woe-begone dog. it shivered in the chill morning wind, and grinned dispiritedly when the man spoke to it in a voice that achieved no more than a hoarse whisper. the sun rose brightly, and all morning the man tottered and fell toward the ship on the shining sea. the weather was perfect. it was the brief indian summer of the high latitudes. it might last a week. to-morrow or next day it might he gone. in the afternoon the man came upon a trail. it was of another man, who did not walk, but who dragged himself on all fours. the man thought it might be bill, but he thought in a dull, uninterested way. he had no curiosity. in fact, sensation and emotion had left him. he was no longer susceptible to pain. stomach and nerves had gone to sleep. yet the life that was in him drove him on. he was very weary, but it refused to die. it was because it refused to die that he still ate muskeg berries and minnows, drank his hot water, and kept a wary eye on the sick wolf. he followed the trail of the other man who dragged himself along, and soon came to the end of it--a few fresh-picked bones where the soggy moss was marked by the foot-pads of many wolves. he saw a squat moose-hide sack, mate to his own, which had been torn by sharp teeth. he picked it up, though its weight was almost too much for his feeble fingers. bill had carried it to the last. ha! ha! he would have the laugh on bill. he would survive and carry it to the ship in the shining sea. his mirth was hoarse and ghastly, like a raven's croak, and the sick wolf joined him, howling lugubriously. the man ceased suddenly. how could he have the laugh on bill if that were bill; if those bones, so pinky-white and clean, were bill? he turned away. well, bill had deserted him; but he would not take the gold, nor would he suck bill's bones. bill would have, though, had it been the other way around, he mused as he staggered on. he came to a pool of water. stooping over in quest of minnows, he jerked his head back as though he had been stung. he had caught sight of his reflected face. so horrible was it that sensibility awoke long enough to be shocked. there were three minnows in the pool, which was too large to drain; and after several ineffectual attempts to catch them in the tin bucket he forbore. he was afraid, because of his great weakness, that he might fall in and drown. it was for this reason that he did not trust himself to the river astride one of the many drift-logs which lined its sand-spits. that day he decreased the distance between him and the ship by three miles; the next day by two--for he was crawling now as bill had crawled; and the end of the fifth day found the ship still seven miles away and him unable to make even a mile a day. still the indian summer held on, and he continued to crawl and faint, turn and turn about; and ever the sick wolf coughed and wheezed at his heels. his knees had become raw meat like his feet, and though he padded them with the shirt from his back it was a red track he left behind him on the moss and stones. once, glancing back, he saw the wolf licking hungrily his bleeding trail, and he saw sharply what his own end might be--unless--unless he could get the wolf. then began as grim a tragedy of existence as was ever played--a sick man that crawled, a sick wolf that limped, two creatures dragging their dying carcasses across the desolation and hunting each other's lives. had it been a well wolf, it would not have mattered so much to the man; but the thought of going to feed the maw of that loathsome and all but dead thing was repugnant to him. he was finicky. his mind had begun to wander again, and to be perplexed by hallucinations, while his lucid intervals grew rarer and shorter. he was awakened once from a faint by a wheeze close in his ear. the wolf leaped lamely back, losing its footing and falling in its weakness. it was ludicrous, but he was not amused. nor was he even afraid. he was too far gone for that. but his mind was for the moment clear, and he lay and considered. the ship was no more than four miles away. he could see it quite distinctly when he rubbed the mists out of his eyes, and he could see the white sail of a small boat cutting the water of the shining sea. but he could never crawl those four miles. he knew that, and was very calm in the knowledge. he knew that he could not crawl half a mile. and yet he wanted to live. it was unreasonable that he should die after all he had undergone. fate asked too much of him. and, dying, he declined to die. it was stark madness, perhaps, but in the very grip of death he defied death and refused to die. he closed his eyes and composed himself with infinite precaution. he steeled himself to keep above the suffocating languor that lapped like a rising tide through all the wells of his being. it was very like a sea, this deadly languor, that rose and rose and drowned his consciousness bit by bit. sometimes he was all but submerged, swimming through oblivion with a faltering stroke; and again, by some strange alchemy of soul, he would find another shred of will and strike out more strongly. without movement he lay on his back, and he could hear, slowly drawing near and nearer, the wheezing intake and output of the sick wolf's breath. it drew closer, ever closer, through an infinitude of time, and he did not move. it was at his ear. the harsh dry tongue grated like sandpaper against his cheek. his hands shot out--or at least he willed them to shoot out. the fingers were curved like talons, but they closed on empty air. swiftness and certitude require strength, and the man had not this strength. the patience of the wolf was terrible. the man's patience was no less terrible. for half a day he lay motionless, fighting off unconsciousness and waiting for the thing that was to feed upon him and upon which he wished to feed. sometimes the languid sea rose over him and he dreamed long dreams; but ever through it all, waking and dreaming, he waited for the wheezing breath and the harsh caress of the tongue. he did not hear the breath, and he slipped slowly from some dream to the feel of the tongue along his hand. he waited. the fangs pressed softly; the pressure increased; the wolf was exerting its last strength in an effort to sink teeth in the food for which it had waited so long. but the man had waited long, and the lacerated hand closed on the jaw. slowly, while the wolf struggled feebly and the hand clutched feebly, the other hand crept across to a grip. five minutes later the whole weight of the man's body was on top of the wolf. the hands had not sufficient strength to choke the wolf, but the face of the man was pressed close to the throat of the wolf and the mouth of the man was full of hair. at the end of half an hour the man was aware of a warm trickle in his throat. it was not pleasant. it was like molten lead being forced into his stomach, and it was forced by his will alone. later the man rolled over on his back and slept. * * * * * there were some members of a scientific expedition on the whale-ship _bedford_. from the deck they remarked a strange object on the shore. it was moving down the beach toward the water. they were unable to classify it, and, being scientific men, they climbed into the whale-boat alongside and went ashore to see. and they saw something that was alive but which could hardly be called a man. it was blind, unconscious. it squirmed along the ground like some monstrous worm. most of its efforts were ineffectual, but it was persistent, and it writhed and twisted and went ahead perhaps a score of feet an hour. * * * * * three weeks afterward the man lay in a bunk on the whale-ship _bedford_, and with tears streaming down his wasted cheeks told who he was and what he had undergone. he also babbled incoherently of his mother, of sunny southern california, and a home among the orange groves and flowers. the days were not many after that when he sat at table with the scientific men and ship's officers. he gloated over the spectacle of so much food, watching it anxiously as it went into the mouths of others. with the disappearance of each mouthful an expression of deep regret came into his eyes. he was quite sane, yet he hated those men at mealtime. he was haunted by a fear that the food would not last. he inquired of the cook, the cabin-boy, the captain, concerning the food stores. they reassured him countless times; but he could not believe them, and pried cunningly about the lazarette to see with his own eyes. it was noticed that the man was getting fat. he grew stouter with each day. the scientific men shook their heads and theorized. they limited the man at his meals, but still his girth increased and he swelled prodigiously under his shirt. the sailors grinned. they knew. and when the scientific men set a watch on the man, they knew too. they saw him slouch for'ard after breakfast, and, like a mendicant, with outstretched palm, accost a sailor. the sailor grinned and passed him a fragment of sea biscuit. he clutched it avariciously, looked at it as a miser looks at gold, and thrust it into his shirt bosom. similar were the donations from other grinning sailors. the scientific men were discreet. they let him alone. but they privily examined his bunk. it was lined with hardtack; the mattress was stuffed with hardtack; every nook and cranny was filled with hardtack. yet he was sane. he was taking precautions against another possible famine--that was all. he would recover from it, the scientific men said; and he did, ere the _bedford's_ anchor rumbled down in san francisco bay. a day's lodging it was the gosh-dangdest stampede i ever seen. a thousand dog-teams hittin' the ice. you couldn't see 'm fer smoke. two white men an' a swede froze to death that night, an' there was a dozen busted their lungs. but didn't i see with my own eyes the bottom of the water-hole? it was yellow with gold like a mustard-plaster. that's why i staked the yukon for a minin' claim. that's what made the stampede. an' then there was nothin' to it. that's what i said--nothin' to it. an' i ain't got over guessin' yet.--narrative of shorty. john messner clung with mittened hand to the bucking gee-pole and held the sled in the trail. with the other mittened hand he rubbed his cheeks and nose. he rubbed his cheeks and nose every little while. in point of fact, he rarely ceased from rubbing them, and sometimes, as their numbness increased, he rubbed fiercely. his forehead was covered by the visor of his fur cap, the flaps of which went over his ears. the rest of his face was protected by a thick beard, golden-brown under its coating of frost. behind him churned a heavily loaded yukon sled, and before him toiled a string of five dogs. the rope by which they dragged the sled rubbed against the side of messner's leg. when the dogs swung on a bend in the trail, he stepped over the rope. there were many bends, and he was compelled to step over it often. sometimes he tripped on the rope, or stumbled, and at all times he was awkward, betraying a weariness so great that the sled now and again ran upon his heels. when he came to a straight piece of trail, where the sled could get along for a moment without guidance, he let go the gee-pole and batted his right hand sharply upon the hard wood. he found it difficult to keep up the circulation in that hand. but while he pounded the one hand, he never ceased from rubbing his nose and cheeks with the other. "it's too cold to travel, anyway," he said. he spoke aloud, after the manner of men who are much by themselves. "only a fool would travel at such a temperature. if it isn't eighty below, it's because it's seventy- nine." he pulled out his watch, and after some fumbling got it back into the breast pocket of his thick woollen jacket. then he surveyed the heavens and ran his eye along the white sky-line to the south. "twelve o'clock," he mumbled, "a clear sky, and no sun." he plodded on silently for ten minutes, and then, as though there had been no lapse in his speech, he added: "and no ground covered, and it's too cold to travel." suddenly he yelled "whoa!" at the dogs, and stopped. he seemed in a wild panic over his right hand, and proceeded to hammer it furiously against the gee-pole. "you--poor--devils!" he addressed the dogs, which had dropped down heavily on the ice to rest. his was a broken, jerky utterance, caused by the violence with which he hammered his numb hand upon the wood. "what have you done anyway that a two-legged other animal should come along, break you to harness, curb all your natural proclivities, and make slave- beasts out of you?" he rubbed his nose, not reflectively, but savagely, in order to drive the blood into it, and urged the dogs to their work again. he travelled on the frozen surface of a great river. behind him it stretched away in a mighty curve of many miles, losing itself in a fantastic jumble of mountains, snow-covered and silent. ahead of him the river split into many channels to accommodate the freight of islands it carried on its breast. these islands were silent and white. no animals nor humming insects broke the silence. no birds flew in the chill air. there was no sound of man, no mark of the handiwork of man. the world slept, and it was like the sleep of death. john messner seemed succumbing to the apathy of it all. the frost was benumbing his spirit. he plodded on with bowed head, unobservant, mechanically rubbing nose and cheeks, and batting his steering hand against the gee-pole in the straight trail-stretches. but the dogs were observant, and suddenly they stopped, turning their heads and looking back at their master out of eyes that were wistful and questioning. their eyelashes were frosted white, as were their muzzles, and they had all the seeming of decrepit old age, what of the frost-rime and exhaustion. the man was about to urge them on, when he checked himself, roused up with an effort, and looked around. the dogs had stopped beside a water- hole, not a fissure, but a hole man-made, chopped laboriously with an axe through three and a half feet of ice. a thick skin of new ice showed that it had not been used for some time. messner glanced about him. the dogs were already pointing the way, each wistful and hoary muzzle turned toward the dim snow-path that left the main river trail and climbed the bank of the island. "all right, you sore-footed brutes," he said. "i'll investigate. you're not a bit more anxious to quit than i am." he climbed the bank and disappeared. the dogs did not lie down, but on their feet eagerly waited his return. he came back to them, took a hauling-rope from the front of the sled, and put it around his shoulders. then he _gee'd_ the dogs to the right and put them at the bank on the run. it was a stiff pull, but their weariness fell from them as they crouched low to the snow, whining with eagerness and gladness as they struggled upward to the last ounce of effort in their bodies. when a dog slipped or faltered, the one behind nipped his hind quarters. the man shouted encouragement and threats, and threw all his weight on the hauling-rope. they cleared the bank with a rush, swung to the left, and dashed up to a small log cabin. it was a deserted cabin of a single room, eight feet by ten on the inside. messner unharnessed the animals, unloaded his sled and took possession. the last chance wayfarer had left a supply of firewood. messner set up his light sheet-iron stove and starred a fire. he put five sun-cured salmon into the oven to thaw out for the dogs, and from the water-hole filled his coffee-pot and cooking-pail. while waiting for the water to boil, he held his face over the stove. the moisture from his breath had collected on his beard and frozen into a great mass of ice, and this he proceeded to thaw out. as it melted and dropped upon the stove it sizzled and rose about him in steam. he helped the process with his fingers, working loose small ice-chunks that fell rattling to the floor. a wild outcry from the dogs without did not take him from his task. he heard the wolfish snarling and yelping of strange dogs and the sound of voices. a knock came on the door. "come in," messner called, in a voice muffled because at the moment he was sucking loose a fragment of ice from its anchorage on his upper lip. the door opened, and, gazing out of his cloud of steam, he saw a man and a woman pausing on the threshold. "come in," he said peremptorily, "and shut the door!" peering through the steam, he could make out but little of their personal appearance. the nose and cheek strap worn by the woman and the trail- wrappings about her head allowed only a pair of black eyes to be seen. the man was dark-eyed and smooth-shaven all except his mustache, which was so iced up as to hide his mouth. "we just wanted to know if there is any other cabin around here," he said, at the same time glancing over the unfurnished state of the room. "we thought this cabin was empty." "it isn't my cabin," messner answered. "i just found it a few minutes ago. come right in and camp. plenty of room, and you won't need your stove. there's room for all." at the sound of his voice the woman peered at him with quick curiousness. "get your things off," her companion said to her. "i'll unhitch and get the water so we can start cooking." messner took the thawed salmon outside and fed his dogs. he had to guard them against the second team of dogs, and when he had reentered the cabin the other man had unpacked the sled and fetched water. messner's pot was boiling. he threw in the coffee, settled it with half a cup of cold water, and took the pot from the stove. he thawed some sour-dough biscuits in the oven, at the same time heating a pot of beans he had boiled the night before and that had ridden frozen on the sled all morning. removing his utensils from the stove, so as to give the newcomers a chance to cook, he proceeded to take his meal from the top of his grub- box, himself sitting on his bed-roll. between mouthfuls he talked trail and dogs with the man, who, with head over the stove, was thawing the ice from his mustache. there were two bunks in the cabin, and into one of them, when he had cleared his lip, the stranger tossed his bed-roll. "we'll sleep here," he said, "unless you prefer this bunk. you're the first comer and you have first choice, you know." "that's all right," messner answered. "one bunk's just as good as the other." he spread his own bedding in the second bunk, and sat down on the edge. the stranger thrust a physician's small travelling case under his blankets at one end to serve for a pillow. "doctor?" messner asked. "yes," came the answer, "but i assure you i didn't come into the klondike to practise." the woman busied herself with cooking, while the man sliced bacon and fired the stove. the light in the cabin was dim, filtering through in a small window made of onion-skin writing paper and oiled with bacon grease, so that john messner could not make out very well what the woman looked like. not that he tried. he seemed to have no interest in her. but she glanced curiously from time to time into the dark corner where he sat. "oh, it's a great life," the doctor proclaimed enthusiastically, pausing from sharpening his knife on the stovepipe. "what i like about it is the struggle, the endeavor with one's own hands, the primitiveness of it, the realness." "the temperature is real enough," messner laughed. "do you know how cold it actually is?" the doctor demanded. the other shook his head. "well, i'll tell you. seventy-four below zero by spirit thermometer on the sled." "that's one hundred and six below freezing point--too cold for travelling, eh?" "practically suicide," was the doctor's verdict. "one exerts himself. he breathes heavily, taking into his lungs the frost itself. it chills his lungs, freezes the edges of the tissues. he gets a dry, hacking cough as the dead tissue sloughs away, and dies the following summer of pneumonia, wondering what it's all about. i'll stay in this cabin for a week, unless the thermometer rises at least to fifty below." "i say, tess," he said, the next moment, "don't you think that coffee's boiled long enough!" at the sound of the woman's name, john messner became suddenly alert. he looked at her quickly, while across his face shot a haunting expression, the ghost of some buried misery achieving swift resurrection. but the next moment, and by an effort of will, the ghost was laid again. his face was as placid as before, though he was still alert, dissatisfied with what the feeble light had shown him of the woman's face. automatically, her first act had been to set the coffee-pot back. it was not until she had done this that she glanced at messner. but already he had composed himself. she saw only a man sitting on the edge of the bunk and incuriously studying the toes of his moccasins. but, as she turned casually to go about her cooking, he shot another swift look at her, and she, glancing as swiftly back, caught his look. he shifted on past her to the doctor, though the slightest smile curled his lip in appreciation of the way she had trapped him. she drew a candle from the grub-box and lighted it. one look at her illuminated face was enough for messner. in the small cabin the widest limit was only a matter of several steps, and the next moment she was alongside of him. she deliberately held the candle close to his face and stared at him out of eyes wide with fear and recognition. he smiled quietly back at her. "what are you looking for, tess?" the doctor called. "hairpins," she replied, passing on and rummaging in a clothes-bag on the bunk. they served their meal on their grub-box, sitting on messner's grub-box and facing him. he had stretched out on his bunk to rest, lying on his side, his head on his arm. in the close quarters it was as though the three were together at table. "what part of the states do you come from?" messner asked. "san francisco," answered the doctor. "i've been in here two years, though." "i hail from california myself," was messner's announcement. the woman looked at him appealingly, but he smiled and went on: "berkeley, you know." the other man was becoming interested. "u. c.?" he asked. "yes, class of ' ." "i meant faculty," the doctor explained. "you remind me of the type." "sorry to hear you say so," messner smiled back. "i'd prefer being taken for a prospector or a dog-musher." "i don't think he looks any more like a professor than you do a doctor," the woman broke in. "thank you," said messner. then, turning to her companion, "by the way, doctor, what is your name, if i may ask?" "haythorne, if you'll take my word for it. i gave up cards with civilization." "and mrs. haythorne," messner smiled and bowed. she flashed a look at him that was more anger than appeal. haythorne was about to ask the other's name. his mouth had opened to form the question when messner cut him off. "come to think of it, doctor, you may possibly be able to satisfy my curiosity. there was a sort of scandal in faculty circles some two or three years ago. the wife of one of the english professors--er, if you will pardon me, mrs. haythorne--disappeared with some san francisco doctor, i understood, though his name does not just now come to my lips. do you remember the incident?" haythorne nodded his head. "made quite a stir at the time. his name was womble--graham womble. he had a magnificent practice. i knew him somewhat." "well, what i was trying to get at was what had become of them. i was wondering if you had heard. they left no trace, hide nor hair." "he covered his tracks cunningly." haythorne cleared his throat. "there was rumor that they went to the south seas--were lost on a trading schooner in a typhoon, or something like that." "i never heard that," messner said. "you remember the case, mrs. haythorne?" "perfectly," she answered, in a voice the control of which was in amazing contrast to the anger that blazed in the face she turned aside so that haythorne might not see. the latter was again on the verge of asking his name, when messner remarked: "this dr. womble, i've heard he was very handsome, and--er--quite a success, so to say, with the ladies." "well, if he was, he finished himself off by that affair," haythorne grumbled. "and the woman was a termagant--at least so i've been told. it was generally accepted in berkeley that she made life--er--not exactly paradise for her husband." "i never heard that," haythorne rejoined. "in san francisco the talk was all the other way." "woman sort of a martyr, eh?--crucified on the cross of matrimony?" the doctor nodded. messner's gray eyes were mildly curious as he went on: "that was to be expected--two sides to the shield. living in berkeley i only got the one side. she was a great deal in san francisco, it seems." "some coffee, please," haythorne said. the woman refilled his mug, at the same time breaking into light laughter. "you're gossiping like a pair of beldames," she chided them. "it's so interesting," messner smiled at her, then returned to the doctor. "the husband seems then to have had a not very savory reputation in san francisco?" "on the contrary, he was a moral prig," haythorne blurted out, with apparently undue warmth. "he was a little scholastic shrimp without a drop of red blood in his body." "did you know him?" "never laid eyes on him. i never knocked about in university circles." "one side of the shield again," messner said, with an air of weighing the matter judicially. "while he did not amount to much, it is true--that is, physically--i'd hardly say he was as bad as all that. he did take an active interest in student athletics. and he had some talent. he once wrote a nativity play that brought him quite a bit of local appreciation. i have heard, also, that he was slated for the head of the english department, only the affair happened and he resigned and went away. it quite broke his career, or so it seemed. at any rate, on our side the shield, it was considered a knock-out blow to him. it was thought he cared a great deal for his wife." haythorne, finishing his mug of coffee, grunted uninterestedly and lighted his pipe. "it was fortunate they had no children," messner continued. but haythorne, with a glance at the stove, pulled on his cap and mittens. "i'm going out to get some wood," he said. "then i can take off my moccasins and he comfortable." the door slammed behind him. for a long minute there was silence. the man continued in the same position on the bed. the woman sat on the grub- box, facing him. "what are you going to do?" she asked abruptly. messner looked at her with lazy indecision. "what do you think i ought to do? nothing scenic, i hope. you see i am stiff and trail-sore, and this bunk is so restful." she gnawed her lower lip and fumed dumbly. "but--" she began vehemently, then clenched her hands and stopped. "i hope you don't want me to kill mr.--er--haythorne," he said gently, almost pleadingly. "it would be most distressing, and, i assure you, really it is unnecessary." "but you must do something," she cried. "on the contrary, it is quite conceivable that i do not have to do anything." "you would stay here?" he nodded. she glanced desperately around the cabin and at the bed unrolled on the other bunk. "night is coming on. you can't stop here. you can't! i tell you, you simply can't!" "of course i can. i might remind you that i found this cabin first and that you are my guests." again her eyes travelled around the room, and the terror in them leaped up at sight of the other bunk. "then we'll have to go," she announced decisively. "impossible. you have a dry, hacking cough--the sort mr.--er--haythorne so aptly described. you've already slightly chilled your lungs. besides, he is a physician and knows. he would never permit it." "then what are you going to do?" she demanded again, with a tense, quiet utterance that boded an outbreak. messner regarded her in a way that was almost paternal, what of the profundity of pity and patience with which he contrived to suffuse it. "my dear theresa, as i told you before, i don't know. i really haven't thought about it." "oh! you drive me mad!" she sprang to her feet, wringing her hands in impotent wrath. "you never used to be this way." "i used to be all softness and gentleness," he nodded concurrence. "was that why you left me?" "you are so different, so dreadfully calm. you frighten me. i feel you have something terrible planned all the while. but whatever you do, don't do anything rash. don't get excited--" "i don't get excited any more," he interrupted. "not since you went away." "you have improved--remarkably," she retorted. he smiled acknowledgment. "while i am thinking about what i shall do, i'll tell you what you will have to do--tell mr.--er--haythorne who i am. it may make our stay in this cabin more--may i say, sociable?" "why have you followed me into this frightful country?" she asked irrelevantly. "don't think i came here looking for you, theresa. your vanity shall not be tickled by any such misapprehension. our meeting is wholly fortuitous. i broke with the life academic and i had to go somewhere. to be honest, i came into the klondike because i thought it the place you were least liable to be in." there was a fumbling at the latch, then the door swung in and haythorne entered with an armful of firewood. at the first warning, theresa began casually to clear away the dishes. haythorne went out again after more wood. "why didn't you introduce us?" messner queried. "i'll tell him," she replied, with a toss of her head. "don't think i'm afraid." "i never knew you to be afraid, very much, of anything." "and i'm not afraid of confession, either," she said, with softening face and voice. "in your case, i fear, confession is exploitation by indirection, profit- making by ruse, self-aggrandizement at the expense of god." "don't be literary," she pouted, with growing tenderness. "i never did like epigrammatic discussion. besides, i'm not afraid to ask you to forgive me." "there is nothing to forgive, theresa. i really should thank you. true, at first i suffered; and then, with all the graciousness of spring, it dawned upon me that i was happy, very happy. it was a most amazing discovery." "but what if i should return to you?" she asked. "i should" (he looked at her whimsically), "be greatly perturbed." "i am your wife. you know you have never got a divorce." "i see," he meditated. "i have been careless. it will be one of the first things i attend to." she came over to his side, resting her hand on his arm. "you don't want me, john?" her voice was soft and caressing, her hand rested like a lure. "if i told you i had made a mistake? if i told you that i was very unhappy?--and i am. and i did make a mistake." fear began to grow on messner. he felt himself wilting under the lightly laid hand. the situation was slipping away from him, all his beautiful calmness was going. she looked at him with melting eyes, and he, too, seemed all dew and melting. he felt himself on the edge of an abyss, powerless to withstand the force that was drawing him over. "i am coming back to you, john. i am coming back to-day . . . now." as in a nightmare, he strove under the hand. while she talked, he seemed to hear, rippling softly, the song of the lorelei. it was as though, somewhere, a piano were playing and the actual notes were impinging on his ear-drums. suddenly he sprang to his feet, thrust her from him as her arms attempted to clasp him, and retreated backward to the door. he was in a panic. "i'll do something desperate!" he cried. "i warned you not to get excited." she laughed mockingly, and went about washing the dishes. "nobody wants you. i was just playing with you. i am happier where i am." but messner did not believe. he remembered her facility in changing front. she had changed front now. it was exploitation by indirection. she was not happy with the other man. she had discovered her mistake. the flame of his ego flared up at the thought. she wanted to come back to him, which was the one thing he did not want. unwittingly, his hand rattled the door-latch. "don't run away," she laughed. "i won't bite you." "i am not running away," he replied with child-like defiance, at the same time pulling on his mittens. "i'm only going to get some water." he gathered the empty pails and cooking pots together and opened the door. he looked back at her. "don't forget you're to tell mr.--er--haythorne who i am." messner broke the skin that had formed on the water-hole within the hour, and filled his pails. but he did not return immediately to the cabin. leaving the pails standing in the trail, he walked up and down, rapidly, to keep from freezing, for the frost bit into the flesh like fire. his beard was white with his frozen breath when the perplexed and frowning brows relaxed and decision came into his face. he had made up his mind to his course of action, and his frigid lips and cheeks crackled into a chuckle over it. the pails were already skinned over with young ice when he picked them up and made for the cabin. when he entered he found the other man waiting, standing near the stove, a certain stiff awkwardness and indecision in his manner. messner set down his water-pails. "glad to meet you, graham womble," he said in conventional tones, as though acknowledging an introduction. messner did not offer his hand. womble stirred uneasily, feeling for the other the hatred one is prone to feel for one he has wronged. "and so you're the chap," messner said in marvelling accents. "well, well. you see, i really am glad to meet you. i have been--er--curious to know what theresa found in you--where, i may say, the attraction lay. well, well." and he looked the other up and down as a man would look a horse up and down. "i know how you must feel about me," womble began. "don't mention it," messner broke in with exaggerated cordiality of voice and manner. "never mind that. what i want to know is how do you find her? up to expectations? has she worn well? life been all a happy dream ever since?" "don't be silly," theresa interjected. "i can't help being natural," messner complained. "you can be expedient at the same time, and practical," womble said sharply. "what we want to know is what are you going to do?" messner made a well-feigned gesture of helplessness. "i really don't know. it is one of those impossible situations against which there can be no provision." "all three of us cannot remain the night in this cabin." messner nodded affirmation. "then somebody must get out." "that also is incontrovertible," messner agreed. "when three bodies cannot occupy the same space at the same time, one must get out." "and you're that one," womble announced grimly. "it's a ten-mile pull to the next camp, but you can make it all right." "and that's the first flaw in your reasoning," the other objected. "why, necessarily, should i be the one to get out? i found this cabin first." "but tess can't get out," womble explained. "her lungs are already slightly chilled." "i agree with you. she can't venture ten miles of frost. by all means she must remain." "then it is as i said," womble announced with finality. messner cleared his throat. "your lungs are all right, aren't they?" "yes, but what of it?" again the other cleared his throat and spoke with painstaking and judicial slowness. "why, i may say, nothing of it, except, ah, according to your own reasoning, there is nothing to prevent your getting out, hitting the frost, so to speak, for a matter of ten miles. you can make it all right." womble looked with quick suspicion at theresa and caught in her eyes a glint of pleased surprise. "well?" he demanded of her. she hesitated, and a surge of anger darkened his face. he turned upon messner. "enough of this. you can't stop here." "yes, i can." "i won't let you." womble squared his shoulders. "i'm running things." "i'll stay anyway," the other persisted. "i'll put you out." "i'll come back." womble stopped a moment to steady his voice and control himself. then he spoke slowly, in a low, tense voice. "look here, messner, if you refuse to get out, i'll thrash you. this isn't california. i'll beat you to a jelly with my two fists." messner shrugged his shoulders. "if you do, i'll call a miners' meeting and see you strung up to the nearest tree. as you said, this is not california. they're a simple folk, these miners, and all i'll have to do will be to show them the marks of the beating, tell them the truth about you, and present my claim for my wife." the woman attempted to speak, but womble turned upon her fiercely. "you keep out of this," he cried. in marked contrast was messner's "please don't intrude, theresa." what of her anger and pent feelings, her lungs were irritated into the dry, hacking cough, and with blood-suffused face and one hand clenched against her chest, she waited for the paroxysm to pass. womble looked gloomily at her, noting her cough. "something must be done," he said. "yet her lungs can't stand the exposure. she can't travel till the temperature rises. and i'm not going to give her up." messner hemmed, cleared his throat, and hemmed again, semi-apologetically, and said, "i need some money." contempt showed instantly in womble's face. at last, beneath him in vileness, had the other sunk himself. "you've got a fat sack of dust," messner went on. "i saw you unload it from the sled." "how much do you want?" womble demanded, with a contempt in his voice equal to that in his face. "i made an estimate of the sack, and i--ah--should say it weighed about twenty pounds. what do you say we call it four thousand?" "but it's all i've got, man!" womble cried out. "you've got her," the other said soothingly. "she must be worth it. think what i'm giving up. surely it is a reasonable price." "all right." womble rushed across the floor to the gold-sack. "can't put this deal through too quick for me, you--you little worm!" "now, there you err," was the smiling rejoinder. "as a matter of ethics isn't the man who gives a bribe as bad as the man who takes a bribe? the receiver is as bad as the thief, you know; and you needn't console yourself with any fictitious moral superiority concerning this little deal." "to hell with your ethics!" the other burst out. "come here and watch the weighing of this dust. i might cheat you." and the woman, leaning against the bunk, raging and impotent, watched herself weighed out in yellow dust and nuggets in the scales erected on the grub-box. the scales were small, making necessary many weighings, and messner with precise care verified each weighing. "there's too much silver in it," he remarked as he tied up the gold-sack. "i don't think it will run quite sixteen to the ounce. you got a trifle the better of me, womble." he handled the sack lovingly, and with due appreciation of its preciousness carried it out to his sled. returning, he gathered his pots and pans together, packed his grub-box, and rolled up his bed. when the sled was lashed and the complaining dogs harnessed, he returned into the cabin for his mittens. "good-by, tess," he said, standing at the open door. she turned on him, struggling for speech but too frantic to word the passion that burned in her. "good-by, tess," he repeated gently. "beast!" she managed to articulate. she turned and tottered to the bunk, flinging herself face down upon it, sobbing: "you beasts! you beasts!" john messner closed the door softly behind him, and, as he started the dogs, looked back at the cabin with a great relief in his face. at the bottom of the bank, beside the water-hole, he halted the sled. he worked the sack of gold out between the lashings and carried it to the water- hole. already a new skin of ice had formed. this he broke with his fist. untying the knotted mouth with his teeth, he emptied the contents of the sack into the water. the river was shallow at that point, and two feet beneath the surface he could see the bottom dull-yellow in the fading light. at the sight of it, he spat into the hole. he started the dogs along the yukon trail. whining spiritlessly, they were reluctant to work. clinging to the gee-pole with his right band and with his left rubbing cheeks and nose, he stumbled over the rope as the dogs swung on a bend. "mush-on, you poor, sore-footed brutes!" he cried. "that's it, mush-on!" the white man's way "to cook by your fire and to sleep under your roof for the night," i had announced on entering old ebbits's cabin; and he had looked at me blear- eyed and vacuous, while zilla had favored me with a sour face and a contemptuous grunt. zilla was his wife, and no more bitter-tongued, implacable old squaw dwelt on the yukon. nor would i have stopped there had my dogs been less tired or had the rest of the village been inhabited. but this cabin alone had i found occupied, and in this cabin, perforce, i took my shelter. old ebbits now and again pulled his tangled wits together, and hints and sparkles of intelligence came and went in his eyes. several times during the preparation of my supper he even essayed hospitable inquiries about my health, the condition and number of my dogs, and the distance i had travelled that day. and each time zilla had looked sourer than ever and grunted more contemptuously. yet i confess that there was no particular call for cheerfulness on their part. there they crouched by the fire, the pair of them, at the end of their days, old and withered and helpless, racked by rheumatism, bitten by hunger, and tantalized by the frying-odors of my abundance of meat. they rocked back and forth in a slow and hopeless way, and regularly, once every five minutes, ebbits emitted a low groan. it was not so much a groan of pain, as of pain-weariness. he was oppressed by the weight and the torment of this thing called life, and still more was he oppressed by the fear of death. his was that eternal tragedy of the aged, with whom the joy of life has departed and the instinct for death has not come. when my moose-meat spluttered rowdily in the frying-pan, i noticed old ebbits's nostrils twitch and distend as he caught the food-scent. he ceased rocking for a space and forgot to groan, while a look of intelligence seemed to come into his face. zilla, on the other hand, rocked more rapidly, and for the first time, in sharp little yelps, voiced her pain. it came to me that their behavior was like that of hungry dogs, and in the fitness of things i should not have been astonished had zilla suddenly developed a tail and thumped it on the floor in right doggish fashion. ebbits drooled a little and stopped his rocking very frequently to lean forward and thrust his tremulous nose nearer to the source of gustatory excitement. when i passed them each a plate of the fried meat, they ate greedily, making loud mouth-noises--champings of worn teeth and sucking intakes of the breath, accompanied by a continuous spluttering and mumbling. after that, when i gave them each a mug of scalding tea, the noises ceased. easement and content came into their faces. zilla relaxed her sour mouth long enough to sigh her satisfaction. neither rocked any more, and they seemed to have fallen into placid meditation. then a dampness came into ebbits's eyes, and i knew that the sorrow of self-pity was his. the search required to find their pipes told plainly that they had been without tobacco a long time, and the old man's eagerness for the narcotic rendered him helpless, so that i was compelled to light his pipe for him. "why are you all alone in the village?" i asked. "is everybody dead? has there been a great sickness? are you alone left of the living?" old ebbits shook his head, saying: "nay, there has been no great sickness. the village has gone away to hunt meat. we be too old, our legs are not strong, nor can our backs carry the burdens of camp and trail. wherefore we remain here and wonder when the young men will return with meat." "what if the young men do return with meat?" zilla demanded harshly. "they may return with much meat," he quavered hopefully. "even so, with much meat," she continued, more harshly than before. "but of what worth to you and me? a few bones to gnaw in our toothless old age. but the back-fat, the kidneys, and the tongues--these shall go into other mouths than thine and mine, old man." ebbits nodded his head and wept silently. "there be no one to hunt meat for us," she cried, turning fiercely upon me. there was accusation in her manner, and i shrugged my shoulders in token that i was not guilty of the unknown crime imputed to me. "know, o white man, that it is because of thy kind, because of all white men, that my man and i have no meat in our old age and sit without tobacco in the cold." "nay," ebbits said gravely, with a stricter sense of justice. "wrong has been done us, it be true; but the white men did not mean the wrong." "where be moklan?" she demanded. "where be thy strong son, moklan, and the fish he was ever willing to bring that you might eat?" the old man shook his head. "and where be bidarshik, thy strong son? ever was he a mighty hunter, and ever did he bring thee the good back-fat and the sweet dried tongues of the moose and the caribou. i see no back-fat and no sweet dried tongues. your stomach is full with emptiness through the days, and it is for a man of a very miserable and lying people to give you to eat." "nay," old ebbits interposed in kindliness, "the white man's is not a lying people. the white man speaks true. always does the white man speak true." he paused, casting about him for words wherewith to temper the severity of what he was about to say. "but the white man speaks true in different ways. to-day he speaks true one way, to-morrow he speaks true another way, and there is no understanding him nor his way." "to-day speak true one way, to-morrow speak true another way, which is to lie," was zilla's dictum. "there is no understanding the white man," ebbits went on doggedly. the meat, and the tea, and the tobacco seemed to have brought him back to life, and he gripped tighter hold of the idea behind his age-bleared eyes. he straightened up somewhat. his voice lost its querulous and whimpering note, and became strong and positive. he turned upon me with dignity, and addressed me as equal addresses equal. "the white man's eyes are not shut," he began. "the white man sees all things, and thinks greatly, and is very wise. but the white man of one day is not the white man of next day, and there is no understanding him. he does not do things always in the same way. and what way his next way is to be, one cannot know. always does the indian do the one thing in the one way. always does the moose come down from the high mountains when the winter is here. always does the salmon come in the spring when the ice has gone out of the river. always does everything do all things in the same way, and the indian knows and understands. but the white man does not do all things in the same way, and the indian does not know nor understand. "tobacco be very good. it be food to the hungry man. it makes the strong man stronger, and the angry man to forget that he is angry. also is tobacco of value. it is of very great value. the indian gives one large salmon for one leaf of tobacco, and he chews the tobacco for a long time. it is the juice of the tobacco that is good. when it runs down his throat it makes him feel good inside. but the white man! when his mouth is full with the juice, what does he do? that juice, that juice of great value, he spits it out in the snow and it is lost. does the white man like tobacco? i do not know. but if he likes tobacco, why does he spit out its value and lose it in the snow? it is a great foolishness and without understanding." he ceased, puffed at the pipe, found that it was out, and passed it over to zilla, who took the sneer at the white man off her lips in order to pucker them about the pipe-stem. ebbits seemed sinking back into his senility with the tale untold, and i demanded: "what of thy sons, moklan and bidarshik? and why is it that you and your old woman are without meat at the end of your years?" he roused himself as from sleep, and straightened up with an effort. "it is not good to steal," he said. "when the dog takes your meat you beat the dog with a club. such is the law. it is the law the man gave to the dog, and the dog must live to the law, else will it suffer the pain of the club. when man takes your meat, or your canoe, or your wife, you kill that man. that is the law, and it is a good law. it is not good to steal, wherefore it is the law that the man who steals must die. whoso breaks the law must suffer hurt. it is a great hurt to die." "but if you kill the man, why do you not kill the dog?" i asked. old ebbits looked at me in childlike wonder, while zilla sneered openly at the absurdity of my question. "it is the way of the white man," ebbits mumbled with an air of resignation. "it is the foolishness of the white man," snapped zilla. "then let old ebbits teach the white man wisdom," i said softly. "the dog is not killed, because it must pull the sled of the man. no man pulls another man's sled, wherefore the man is killed." "oh," i murmured. "that is the law," old ebbits went on. "now listen, o white man, and i will tell you of a great foolishness. there is an indian. his name is mobits. from white man he steals two pounds of flour. what does the white man do? does he beat mobits? no. does he kill mobits? no. what does he do to mobits? i will tell you, o white man. he has a house. he puts mobits in that house. the roof is good. the walls are thick. he makes a fire that mobits may be warm. he gives mobits plenty grub to eat. it is good grub. never in his all days does mobits eat so good grub. there is bacon, and bread, and beans without end. mobits have very good time. "there is a big lock on door so that mobits does not run away. this also is a great foolishness. mobits will not run away. all the time is there plenty grub in that place, and warm blankets, and a big fire. very foolish to run away. mobits is not foolish. three months mobits stop in that place. he steal two pounds of flour. for that, white man take plenty good care of him. mobits eat many pounds of flour, many pounds of sugar, of bacon, of beans without end. also, mobits drink much tea. after three months white man open door and tell mobits he must go. mobits does not want to go. he is like dog that is fed long time in one place. he want to stay in that place, and the white man must drive mobits away. so mobits come back to this village, and he is very fat. that is the white man's way, and there is no understanding it. it is a foolishness, a great foolishness." "but thy sons?" i insisted. "thy very strong sons and thine old-age hunger?" "there was moklan," ebbits began. "a strong man," interrupted the mother. "he could dip paddle all of a day and night and never stop for the need of rest. he was wise in the way of the salmon and in the way of the water. he was very wise." "there was moklan," ebbits repeated, ignoring the interruption. "in the spring, he went down the yukon with the young men to trade at cambell fort. there is a post there, filled with the goods of the white man, and a trader whose name is jones. likewise is there a white man's medicine man, what you call missionary. also is there bad water at cambell fort, where the yukon goes slim like a maiden, and the water is fast, and the currents rush this way and that and come together, and there are whirls and sucks, and always are the currents changing and the face of the water changing, so at any two times it is never the same. moklan is my son, wherefore he is brave man--" "was not my father brave man?" zilla demanded. "thy father was brave man," ebbits acknowledged, with the air of one who will keep peace in the house at any cost. "moklan is thy son and mine, wherefore he is brave. mayhap, because of thy very brave father, moklan is too brave. it is like when too much water is put in the pot it spills over. so too much bravery is put into moklan, and the bravery spills over. "the young men are much afraid of the bad water at cambell fort. but moklan is not afraid. he laughs strong, ho! ho! and he goes forth into the bad water. but where the currents come together the canoe is turned over. a whirl takes moklan by the legs, and he goes around and around, and down and down, and is seen no more." "ai! ai!" wailed zilla. "crafty and wise was he, and my first-born!" "i am the father of moklan," ebbits said, having patiently given the woman space for her noise. "i get into canoe and journey down to cambell fort to collect the debt!" "debt!" interrupted. "what debt?" "the debt of jones, who is chief trader," came the answer. "such is the law of travel in a strange country." i shook my head in token of my ignorance, and ebbits looked compassion at me, while zilla snorted her customary contempt. "look you, o white man," he said. "in thy camp is a dog that bites. when the dog bites a man, you give that man a present because you are sorry and because it is thy dog. you make payment. is it not so? also, if you have in thy country bad hunting, or bad water, you must make payment. it is just. it is the law. did not my father's brother go over into the tanana country and get killed by a bear? and did not the tanana tribe pay my father many blankets and fine furs? it was just. it was bad hunting, and the tanana people made payment for the bad hunting. "so i, ebbits, journeyed down to cambell fort to collect the debt. jones, who is chief trader, looked at me, and he laughed. he made great laughter, and would not give payment. i went to the medicine-man, what you call missionary, and had large talk about the bad water and the payment that should be mine. and the missionary made talk about other things. he talk about where moklan has gone, now he is dead. there be large fires in that place, and if missionary make true talk, i know that moklan will be cold no more. also the missionary talk about where i shall go when i am dead. and he say bad things. he say that i am blind. which is a lie. he say that i am in great darkness. which is a lie. and i say that the day come and the night come for everybody just the same, and that in my village it is no more dark than at cambell fort. also, i say that darkness and light and where we go when we die be different things from the matter of payment of just debt for bad water. then the missionary make large anger, and call me bad names of darkness, and tell me to go away. and so i come back from cambell fort, and no payment has been made, and moklan is dead, and in my old age i am without fish and meat." "because of the white man," said zilla. "because of the white man," ebbits concurred. "and other things because of the white man. there was bidarshik. one way did the white man deal with him; and yet another way for the same thing did the white man deal with yamikan. and first must i tell you of yamikan, who was a young man of this village and who chanced to kill a white man. it is not good to kill a man of another people. always is there great trouble. it was not the fault of yamikan that he killed the white man. yamikan spoke always soft words and ran away from wrath as a dog from a stick. but this white man drank much whiskey, and in the night-time came to yamikan's house and made much fight. yamikan cannot run away, and the white man tries to kill him. yamikan does not like to die, so he kills the white man. "then is all the village in great trouble. we are much afraid that we must make large payment to the white man's people, and we hide our blankets, and our furs, and all our wealth, so that it will seem that we are poor people and can make only small payment. after long time white men come. they are soldier white men, and they take yamikan away with them. his mother make great noise and throw ashes in her hair, for she knows yamikan is dead. and all the village knows that yamikan is dead, and is glad that no payment is asked. "that is in the spring when the ice has gone out of the river. one year go by, two years go by. it is spring-time again, and the ice has gone out of the river. and then yamikan, who is dead, comes back to us, and he is not dead, but very fat, and we know that he has slept warm and had plenty grub to eat. he has much fine clothes and is all the same white man, and he has gathered large wisdom so that he is very quick head man in the village. "and he has strange things to tell of the way of the white man, for he has seen much of the white man and done a great travel into the white man's country. first place, soldier white men take him down the river long way. all the way do they take him down the river to the end, where it runs into a lake which is larger than all the land and large as the sky. i do not know the yukon is so big river, but yamikan has seen with his own eyes. i do not think there is a lake larger than all the land and large as the sky, but yamikan has seen. also, he has told me that the waters of this lake be salt, which is a strange thing and beyond understanding. "but the white man knows all these marvels for himself, so i shall not weary him with the telling of them. only will i tell him what happened to yamikan. the white man give yamikan much fine grub. all the time does yamikan eat, and all the time is there plenty more grub. the white man lives under the sun, so said yamikan, where there be much warmth, and animals have only hair and no fur, and the green things grow large and strong and become flour, and beans, and potatoes. and under the sun there is never famine. always is there plenty grub. i do not know. yamikan has said. "and here is a strange thing that befell yamikan. never did the white man hurt him. only did they give him warm bed at night and plenty fine grub. they take him across the salt lake which is big as the sky. he is on white man's fire-boat, what you call steamboat, only he is on boat maybe twenty times bigger than steamboat on yukon. also, it is made of iron, this boat, and yet does it not sink. this i do not understand, but yamikan has said, 'i have journeyed far on the iron boat; behold! i am still alive.' it is a white man's soldier-boat with many soldier men upon it. "after many sleeps of travel, a long, long time, yamikan comes to a land where there is no snow. i cannot believe this. it is not in the nature of things that when winter comes there shall be no snow. but yamikan has seen. also have i asked the white men, and they have said yes, there is no snow in that country. but i cannot believe, and now i ask you if snow never come in that country. also, i would hear the name of that country. i have heard the name before, but i would hear it again, if it be the same--thus will i know if i have heard lies or true talk." old ebbits regarded me with a wistful face. he would have the truth at any cost, though it was his desire to retain his faith in the marvel he had never seen. "yes," i answered, "it is true talk that you have heard. there is no snow in that country, and its name is california." "cal-ee-forn-ee-yeh," he mumbled twice and thrice, listening intently to the sound of the syllables as they fell from his lips. he nodded his head in confirmation. "yes, it is the same country of which yamikan made talk." i recognized the adventure of yamikan as one likely to occur in the early days when alaska first passed into the possession of the united states. such a murder case, occurring before the instalment of territorial law and officials, might well have been taken down to the united states for trial before a federal court. "when yamikan is in this country where there is no snow," old ebbits continued, "he is taken to large house where many men make much talk. long time men talk. also many questions do they ask yamikan. by and by they tell yamikan he have no more trouble. yamikan does not understand, for never has he had any trouble. all the time have they given him warm place to sleep and plenty grub. "but after that they give him much better grub, and they give him money, and they take him many places in white man's country, and he see many strange things which are beyond the understanding of ebbits, who is an old man and has not journeyed far. after two years, yamikan comes back to this village, and he is head man, and very wise until he dies. "but before he dies, many times does he sit by my fire and make talk of the strange things he has seen. and bidarshik, who is my son, sits by the fire and listens; and his eyes are very wide and large because of the things he hears. one night, after yamikan has gone home, bidarshik stands up, so, very tall, and he strikes his chest with his fist, and says, 'when i am a man, i shall journey in far places, even to the land where there is no snow, and see things for myself.'" "always did bidarshik journey in far places," zilla interrupted proudly. "it be true," ebbits assented gravely. "and always did he return to sit by the fire and hunger for yet other and unknown far places." "and always did he remember the salt lake as big as the sky and the country under the sun where there is no snow," quoth zilla. "and always did he say, 'when i have the full strength of a man, i will go and see for myself if the talk of yamikan be true talk,'" said ebbits. "but there was no way to go to the white man's country," said zilla. "did he not go down to the salt lake that is big as the sky?" ebbits demanded. "and there was no way for him across the salt lake," said zilla. "save in the white man's fire-boat which is of iron and is bigger than twenty steamboats on the yukon," said ebbits. he scowled at zilla, whose withered lips were again writhing into speech, and compelled her to silence. "but the white man would not let him cross the salt lake in the fire-boat, and he returned to sit by the fire and hunger for the country under the sun where there is no snow.'" "yet on the salt lake had he seen the fire-boat of iron that did not sink," cried out zilla the irrepressible. "ay," said ebbits, "and he saw that yamikan had made true talk of the things he had seen. but there was no way for bidarshik to journey to the white man's land under the sun, and he grew sick and weary like an old man and moved not away from the fire. no longer did he go forth to kill meat--" "and no longer did he eat the meat placed before him," zilla broke in. "he would shake his head and say, 'only do i care to eat the grub of the white man and grow fat after the manner of yamikan.'" "and he did not eat the meat," ebbits went on. "and the sickness of bidarshik grew into a great sickness until i thought he would die. it was not a sickness of the body, but of the head. it was a sickness of desire. i, ebbits, who am his father, make a great think. i have no more sons and i do not want bidarshik to die. it is a head-sickness, and there is but one way to make it well. bidarshik must journey across the lake as large as the sky to the land where there is no snow, else will he die. i make a very great think, and then i see the way for bidarshik to go. "so, one night when he sits by the fire, very sick, his head hanging down, i say, 'my son, i have learned the way for you to go to the white man's land.' he looks at me, and his face is glad. 'go,' i say, 'even as yamikan went.' but bidarshik is sick and does not understand. 'go forth,' i say, 'and find a white man, and, even as yamikan, do you kill that white man. then will the soldier white men come and get you, and even as they took yamikan will they take you across the salt lake to the white man's land. and then, even as yamikan, will you return very fat, your eyes full of the things you have seen, your head filled with wisdom.' "and bidarshik stands up very quick, and his hand is reaching out for his gun. 'where do you go?' i ask. 'to kill the white man,' he says. and i see that my words have been good in the ears of bidarshik and that he will grow well again. also do i know that my words have been wise. "there is a white man come to this village. he does not seek after gold in the ground, nor after furs in the forest. all the time does he seek after bugs and flies. he does not eat the bugs and flies, then why does he seek after them? i do not know. only do i know that he is a funny white man. also does he seek after the eggs of birds. he does not eat the eggs. all that is inside he takes out, and only does he keep the shell. eggshell is not good to eat. nor does he eat the eggshells, but puts them away in soft boxes where they will not break. he catch many small birds. but he does not eat the birds. he takes only the skins and puts them away in boxes. also does he like bones. bones are not good to eat. and this strange white man likes best the bones of long time ago which he digs out of the ground. "but he is not a fierce white man, and i know he will die very easy; so i say to bidarshik, 'my son, there is the white man for you to kill.' and bidarshik says that my words be wise. so he goes to a place he knows where are many bones in the ground. he digs up very many of these bones and brings them to the strange white man's camp. the white man is made very glad. his face shines like the sun, and he smiles with much gladness as he looks at the bones. he bends his head over, so, to look well at the bones, and then bidarshik strikes him hard on the head, with axe, once, so, and the strange white man kicks and is dead. "'now,' i say to bidarshik, 'will the white soldier men come and take you away to the land under the sun, where you will eat much and grow fat.' bidarshik is happy. already has his sickness gone from him, and he sits by the fire and waits for the coming of the white soldier men. "how was i to know the way of the white man is never twice the same?" the old man demanded, whirling upon me fiercely. "how was i to know that what the white man does yesterday he will not do to-day, and that what he does to-day he will not do to-morrow?" ebbits shook his head sadly. "there is no understanding the white man. yesterday he takes yamikan to the land under the sun and makes him fat with much grub. to-day he takes bidarshik and--what does he do with bidarshik? let me tell you what he does with bidarshik. "i, ebbits, his father, will tell you. he takes bidarshik to cambell fort, and he ties a rope around his neck, so, and, when his feet are no more on the ground, he dies." "ai! ai!" wailed zilla. "and never does he cross the lake large as the sky, nor see the land under the sun where there is no snow." "wherefore," old ebbits said with grave dignity, "there be no one to hunt meat for me in my old age, and i sit hungry by my fire and tell my story to the white man who has given me grub, and strong tea, and tobacco for my pipe." "because of the lying and very miserable white people," zilla proclaimed shrilly. "nay," answered the old man with gentle positiveness. "because of the way of the white man, which is without understanding and never twice the same." the story of keesh keesh lived long ago on the rim of the polar sea, was head man of his village through many and prosperous years, and died full of honors with his name on the lips of men. so long ago did he live that only the old men remember his name, his name and the tale, which they got from the old men before them, and which the old men to come will tell to their children and their children's children down to the end of time. and the winter darkness, when the north gales make their long sweep across the ice-pack, and the air is filled with flying white, and no man may venture forth, is the chosen time for the telling of how keesh, from the poorest _igloo_ in the village, rose to power and place over them all. he was a bright boy, so the tale runs, healthy and strong, and he had seen thirteen suns, in their way of reckoning time. for each winter the sun leaves the land in darkness, and the next year a new sun returns so that they may be warm again and look upon one another's faces. the father of keesh had been a very brave man, but he had met his death in a time of famine, when he sought to save the lives of his people by taking the life of a great polar bear. in his eagerness he came to close grapples with the bear, and his bones were crushed; but the bear had much meat on him and the people were saved. keesh was his only son, and after that keesh lived alone with his mother. but the people are prone to forget, and they forgot the deed of his father; and he being but a boy, and his mother only a woman, they, too, were swiftly forgotten, and ere long came to live in the meanest of all the _igloos_. it was at a council, one night, in the big _igloo_ of klosh-kwan, the chief, that keesh showed the blood that ran in his veins and the manhood that stiffened his back. with the dignity of an elder, he rose to his feet, and waited for silence amid the babble of voices. "it is true that meat be apportioned me and mine," he said. "but it is ofttimes old and tough, this meat, and, moreover, it has an unusual quantity of bones." the hunters, grizzled and gray, and lusty and young, were aghast. the like had never been known before. a child, that talked like a grown man, and said harsh things to their very faces! but steadily and with seriousness, keesh went on. "for that i know my father, bok, was a great hunter, i speak these words. it is said that bok brought home more meat than any of the two best hunters, that with his own hands he attended to the division of it, that with his own eyes he saw to it that the least old woman and the last old man received fair share." "na! na!" the men cried. "put the child out!" "send him off to bed!" "he is no man that he should talk to men and graybeards!" he waited calmly till the uproar died down. "thou hast a wife, ugh-gluk," he said, "and for her dost thou speak. and thou, too, massuk, a mother also, and for them dost thou speak. my mother has no one, save me; wherefore i speak. as i say, though bok be dead because he hunted over-keenly, it is just that i, who am his son, and that ikeega, who is my mother and was his wife, should have meat in plenty so long as there be meat in plenty in the tribe. i, keesh, the son of bok, have spoken." he sat down, his ears keenly alert to the flood of protest and indignation his words had created. "that a boy should speak in council!" old ugh-gluk was mumbling. "shall the babes in arms tell us men the things we shall do?" massuk demanded in a loud voice. "am i a man that i should be made a mock by every child that cries for meat?" the anger boiled a white heat. they ordered him to bed, threatened that he should have no meat at all, and promised him sore beatings for his presumption. keesh's eyes began to flash, and the blood to pound darkly under his skin. in the midst of the abuse he sprang to his feet. "hear me, ye men!" he cried. "never shall i speak in the council again, never again till the men come to me and say, 'it is well, keesh, that thou shouldst speak, it is well and it is our wish.' take this now, ye men, for my last word. bok, my father, was a great hunter. i, too, his son, shall go and hunt the meat that i eat. and be it known, now, that the division of that which i kill shall be fair. and no widow nor weak one shall cry in the night because there is no meat, when the strong men are groaning in great pain for that they have eaten overmuch. and in the days to come there shall be shame upon the strong men who have eaten overmuch. i, keesh, have said it!" jeers and scornful laughter followed him out of the _igloo_, but his jaw was set and he went his way, looking neither to right nor left. the next day he went forth along the shore-line where the ice and the land met together. those who saw him go noted that he carried his bow, with a goodly supply of bone-barbed arrows, and that across his shoulder was his father's big hunting-spear. and there was laughter, and much talk, at the event. it was an unprecedented occurrence. never did boys of his tender age go forth to hunt, much less to hunt alone. also were there shaking of heads and prophetic mutterings, and the women looked pityingly at ikeega, and her face was grave and sad. "he will be back ere long," they said cheeringly. "let him go; it will teach him a lesson," the hunters said. "and he will come back shortly, and he will be meek and soft of speech in the days to follow." but a day passed, and a second, and on the third a wild gale blew, and there was no keesh. ikeega tore her hair and put soot of the seal-oil on her face in token of her grief; and the women assailed the men with bitter words in that they had mistreated the boy and sent him to his death; and the men made no answer, preparing to go in search of the body when the storm abated. early next morning, however, keesh strode into the village. but he came not shamefacedly. across his shoulders he bore a burden of fresh-killed meat. and there was importance in his step and arrogance in his speech. "go, ye men, with the dogs and sledges, and take my trail for the better part of a day's travel," he said. "there is much meat on the ice--a she- bear and two half-grown cubs." ikeega was overcome with joy, but he received her demonstrations in manlike fashion, saying: "come, ikeega, let us eat. and after that i shall sleep, for i am weary." and he passed into their _igloo_ and ate profoundly, and after that slept for twenty running hours. there was much doubt at first, much doubt and discussion. the killing of a polar bear is very dangerous, but thrice dangerous is it, and three times thrice, to kill a mother bear with her cubs. the men could not bring themselves to believe that the boy keesh, single-handed, had accomplished so great a marvel. but the women spoke of the fresh-killed meat he had brought on his back, and this was an overwhelming argument against their unbelief. so they finally departed, grumbling greatly that in all probability, if the thing were so, he had neglected to cut up the carcasses. now in the north it is very necessary that this should be done as soon as a kill is made. if not, the meat freezes so solidly as to turn the edge of the sharpest knife, and a three-hundred-pound bear, frozen stiff, is no easy thing to put upon a sled and haul over the rough ice. but arrived at the spot, they found not only the kill, which they had doubted, but that keesh had quartered the beasts in true hunter fashion, and removed the entrails. thus began the mystery of keesh, a mystery that deepened and deepened with the passing of the days. his very next trip he killed a young bear, nearly full-grown, and on the trip following, a large male bear and his mate. he was ordinarily gone from three to four days, though it was nothing unusual for him to stay away a week at a time on the ice-field. always he declined company on these expeditions, and the people marvelled. "how does he do it?" they demanded of one another. "never does he take a dog with him, and dogs are of such great help, too." "why dost thou hunt only bear?" klosh-kwan once ventured to ask him. and keesh made fitting answer. "it is well known that there is more meat on the bear," he said. but there was also talk of witchcraft in the village. "he hunts with evil spirits," some of the people contended, "wherefore his hunting is rewarded. how else can it be, save that he hunts with evil spirits?" "mayhap they be not evil, but good, these spirits," others said. "it is known that his father was a mighty hunter. may not his father hunt with him so that he may attain excellence and patience and understanding? who knows?" none the less, his success continued, and the less skilful hunters were often kept busy hauling in his meat. and in the division of it he was just. as his father had done before him, he saw to it that the least old woman and the last old man received a fair portion, keeping no more for himself than his needs required. and because of this, and of his merit as a hunter, he was looked upon with respect, and even awe; and there was talk of making him chief after old klosh-kwan. because of the things he had done, they looked for him to appear again in the council, but he never came, and they were ashamed to ask. "i am minded to build me an _igloo_," he said one day to klosh-kwan and a number of the hunters. "it shall be a large _igloo_, wherein ikeega and i can dwell in comfort." "ay," they nodded gravely. "but i have no time. my business is hunting, and it takes all my time. so it is but just that the men and women of the village who eat my meat should build me my _igloo_." and the _igloo_ was built accordingly, on a generous scale which exceeded even the dwelling of klosh-kwan. keesh and his mother moved into it, and it was the first prosperity she had enjoyed since the death of bok. nor was material prosperity alone hers, for, because of her wonderful son and the position he had given her, she came to be looked upon as the first woman in all the village; and the women were given to visiting her, to asking her advice, and to quoting her wisdom when arguments arose among themselves or with the men. but it was the mystery of keesh's marvellous hunting that took chief place in all their minds. and one day ugh-gluk taxed him with witchcraft to his face. "it is charged," ugh-gluk said ominously, "that thou dealest with evil spirits, wherefore thy hunting is rewarded." "is not the meat good?" keesh made answer. "has one in the village yet to fall sick from the eating of it? how dost thou know that witchcraft be concerned? or dost thou guess, in the dark, merely because of the envy that consumes thee?" and ugh-gluk withdrew discomfited, the women laughing at him as he walked away. but in the council one night, after long deliberation, it was determined to put spies on his track when he went forth to hunt, so that his methods might be learned. so, on his next trip, bim and bawn, two young men, and of hunters the craftiest, followed after him, taking care not to be seen. after five days they returned, their eyes bulging and their tongues a-tremble to tell what they had seen. the council was hastily called in klosh-kwan's dwelling, and bim took up the tale. "brothers! as commanded, we journeyed on the trail of keesh, and cunningly we journeyed, so that he might not know. and midway of the first day he picked up with a great he-bear. it was a very great bear." "none greater," bawn corroborated, and went on himself. "yet was the bear not inclined to fight, for he turned away and made off slowly over the ice. this we saw from the rocks of the shore, and the bear came toward us, and after him came keesh, very much unafraid. and he shouted harsh words after the bear, and waved his arms about, and made much noise. then did the bear grow angry, and rise up on his hind legs, and growl. but keesh walked right up to the bear." "ay," bim continued the story. "right up to the bear keesh walked. and the bear took after him, and keesh ran away. but as he ran he dropped a little round ball on the ice. and the bear stopped and smelled of it, then swallowed it up. and keesh continued to run away and drop little round balls, and the bear continued to swallow them up." exclamations and cries of doubt were being made, and ugh-gluk expressed open unbelief. "with our own eyes we saw it," bim affirmed. and bawn--"ay, with our own eyes. and this continued until the bear stood suddenly upright and cried aloud in pain, and thrashed his fore paws madly about. and keesh continued to make off over the ice to a safe distance. but the bear gave him no notice, being occupied with the misfortune the little round balls had wrought within him." "ay, within him," bim interrupted. "for he did claw at himself, and leap about over the ice like a playful puppy, save from the way he growled and squealed it was plain it was not play but pain. never did i see such a sight!" "nay, never was such a sight seen," bawn took up the strain. "and furthermore, it was such a large bear." "witchcraft," ugh-gluk suggested. "i know not," bawn replied. "i tell only of what my eyes beheld. and after a while the bear grew weak and tired, for he was very heavy and he had jumped about with exceeding violence, and he went off along the shore- ice, shaking his head slowly from side to side and sitting down ever and again to squeal and cry. and keesh followed after the bear, and we followed after keesh, and for that day and three days more we followed. the bear grew weak, and never ceased crying from his pain." "it was a charm!" ugh-gluk exclaimed. "surely it was a charm!" "it may well be." and bim relieved bawn. "the bear wandered, now this way and now that, doubling back and forth and crossing his trail in circles, so that at the end he was near where keesh had first come upon him. by this time he was quite sick, the bear, and could crawl no farther, so keesh came up close and speared him to death." "and then?" klosh-kwan demanded. "then we left keesh skinning the bear, and came running that the news of the killing might be told." and in the afternoon of that day the women hauled in the meat of the bear while the men sat in council assembled. when keesh arrived a messenger was sent to him, bidding him come to the council. but he sent reply, saying that he was hungry and tired; also that his _igloo_ was large and comfortable and could hold many men. and curiosity was so strong on the men that the whole council, klosh-kwan to the fore, rose up and went to the _igloo_ of keesh. he was eating, but he received them with respect and seated them according to their rank. ikeega was proud and embarrassed by turns, but keesh was quite composed. klosh-kwan recited the information brought by bim and bawn, and at its close said in a stern voice: "so explanation is wanted, o keesh, of thy manner of hunting. is there witchcraft in it?" keesh looked up and smiled. "nay, o klosh-kwan. it is not for a boy to know aught of witches, and of witches i know nothing. i have but devised a means whereby i may kill the ice-bear with ease, that is all. it be headcraft, not witchcraft." "and may any man?" "any man." there was a long silence. the men looked in one another's faces, and keesh went on eating. "and . . . and . . . and wilt thou tell us, o keesh?" klosh-kwan finally asked in a tremulous voice. "yea, i will tell thee." keesh finished sucking a marrow-bone and rose to his feet. "it is quite simple. behold!" he picked up a thin strip of whalebone and showed it to them. the ends were sharp as needle-points. the strip he coiled carefully, till it disappeared in his hand. then, suddenly releasing it, it sprang straight again. he picked up a piece of blubber. "so," he said, "one takes a small chunk of blubber, thus, and thus makes it hollow. then into the hollow goes the whalebone, so, tightly coiled, and another piece of blubber is fitted over the whale-bone. after that it is put outside where it freezes into a little round ball. the bear swallows the little round ball, the blubber melts, the whalebone with its sharp ends stands out straight, the bear gets sick, and when the bear is very sick, why, you kill him with a spear. it is quite simple." and ugh-gluk said "oh!" and klosh-kwan said "ah!" and each said something after his own manner, and all understood. and this is the story of keesh, who lived long ago on the rim of the polar sea. because he exercised headcraft and not witchcraft, he rose from the meanest _igloo_ to be head man of his village, and through all the years that he lived, it is related, his tribe was prosperous, and neither widow nor weak one cried aloud in the night because there was no meat. the unexpected it is a simple matter to see the obvious, to do the expected. the tendency of the individual life is to be static rather than dynamic, and this tendency is made into a propulsion by civilization, where the obvious only is seen, and the unexpected rarely happens. when the unexpected does happen, however, and when it is of sufficiently grave import, the unfit perish. they do not see what is not obvious, are unable to do the unexpected, are incapable of adjusting their well-grooved lives to other and strange grooves. in short, when they come to the end of their own groove, they die. on the other hand, there are those that make toward survival, the fit individuals who escape from the rule of the obvious and the expected and adjust their lives to no matter what strange grooves they may stray into, or into which they may be forced. such an individual was edith whittlesey. she was born in a rural district of england, where life proceeds by rule of thumb and the unexpected is so very unexpected that when it happens it is looked upon as an immorality. she went into service early, and while yet a young woman, by rule-of-thumb progression, she became a lady's maid. the effect of civilization is to impose human law upon environment until it becomes machine-like in its regularity. the objectionable is eliminated, the inevitable is foreseen. one is not even made wet by the rain nor cold by the frost; while death, instead of stalking about grewsome and accidental, becomes a prearranged pageant, moving along a well-oiled groove to the family vault, where the hinges are kept from rusting and the dust from the air is swept continually away. such was the environment of edith whittlesey. nothing happened. it could scarcely be called a happening, when, at the age of twenty-five, she accompanied her mistress on a bit of travel to the united states. the groove merely changed its direction. it was still the same groove and well oiled. it was a groove that bridged the atlantic with uneventfulness, so that the ship was not a ship in the midst of the sea, but a capacious, many-corridored hotel that moved swiftly and placidly, crushing the waves into submission with its colossal bulk until the sea was a mill-pond, monotonous with quietude. and at the other side the groove continued on over the land--a well-disposed, respectable groove that supplied hotels at every stopping-place, and hotels on wheels between the stopping-places. in chicago, while her mistress saw one side of social life, edith whittlesey saw another side; and when she left her lady's service and became edith nelson, she betrayed, perhaps faintly, her ability to grapple with the unexpected and to master it. hans nelson, immigrant, swede by birth and carpenter by occupation, had in him that teutonic unrest that drives the race ever westward on its great adventure. he was a large-muscled, stolid sort of a man, in whom little imagination was coupled with immense initiative, and who possessed, withal, loyalty and affection as sturdy as his own strength. "when i have worked hard and saved me some money, i will go to colorado," he had told edith on the day after their wedding. a year later they were in colorado, where hans nelson saw his first mining and caught the mining- fever himself. his prospecting led him through the dakotas, idaho, and eastern oregon, and on into the mountains of british columbia. in camp and on trail, edith nelson was always with him, sharing his luck, his hardship, and his toil. the short step of the house-reared woman she exchanged for the long stride of the mountaineer. she learned to look upon danger clear-eyed and with understanding, losing forever that panic fear which is bred of ignorance and which afflicts the city-reared, making them as silly as silly horses, so that they await fate in frozen horror instead of grappling with it, or stampede in blind self-destroying terror which clutters the way with their crushed carcasses. edith nelson met the unexpected at every turn of the trail, and she trained her vision so that she saw in the landscape, not the obvious, but the concealed. she, who had never cooked in her life, learned to make bread without the mediation of hops, yeast, or baking-powder, and to bake bread, top and bottom, in a frying-pan before an open fire. and when the last cup of flour was gone and the last rind of bacon, she was able to rise to the occasion, and of moccasins and the softer-tanned bits of leather in the outfit to make a grub-stake substitute that somehow held a man's soul in his body and enabled him to stagger on. she learned to pack a horse as well as a man,--a task to break the heart and the pride of any city-dweller, and she knew how to throw the hitch best suited for any particular kind of pack. also, she could build a fire of wet wood in a downpour of rain and not lose her temper. in short, in all its guises she mastered the unexpected. but the great unexpected was yet to come into her life and put its test upon her. the gold-seeking tide was flooding northward into alaska, and it was inevitable that hans nelson and his wife should he caught up by the stream and swept toward the klondike. the fall of found them at dyea, but without the money to carry an outfit across chilcoot pass and float it down to dawson. so hans nelson worked at his trade that winter and helped rear the mushroom outfitting-town of skaguay. he was on the edge of things, and throughout the winter he heard all alaska calling to him. latuya bay called loudest, so that the summer of found him and his wife threading the mazes of the broken coast-line in seventy-foot siwash canoes. with them were indians, also three other men. the indians landed them and their supplies in a lonely bight of land a hundred miles or so beyond latuya bay, and returned to skaguay; but the three other men remained, for they were members of the organized party. each had put an equal share of capital into the outfitting, and the profits were to be divided equally. in that edith nelson undertook to cook for the outfit, a man's share was to be her portion. first, spruce trees were cut down and a three-room cabin constructed. to keep this cabin was edith nelson's task. the task of the men was to search for gold, which they did; and to find gold, which they likewise did. it was not a startling find, merely a low-pay placer where long hours of severe toil earned each man between fifteen and twenty dollars a day. the brief alaskan summer protracted itself beyond its usual length, and they took advantage of the opportunity, delaying their return to skaguay to the last moment. and then it was too late. arrangements had been made to accompany the several dozen local indians on their fall trading trip down the coast. the siwashes had waited on the white people until the eleventh hour, and then departed. there was no course left the party but to wait for chance transportation. in the meantime the claim was cleaned up and firewood stocked in. the indian summer had dreamed on and on, and then, suddenly, with the sharpness of bugles, winter came. it came in a single night, and the miners awoke to howling wind, driving snow, and freezing water. storm followed storm, and between the storms there was the silence, broken only by the boom of the surf on the desolate shore, where the salt spray rimmed the beach with frozen white. all went well in the cabin. their gold-dust had weighed up something like eight thousand dollars, and they could not but be contented. the men made snowshoes, hunted fresh meat for the larder, and in the long evenings played endless games of whist and pedro. now that the mining had ceased, edith nelson turned over the fire-building and the dish-washing to the men, while she darned their socks and mended their clothes. there was no grumbling, no bickering, nor petty quarrelling in the little cabin, and they often congratulated one another on the general happiness of the party. hans nelson was stolid and easy-going, while edith had long before won his unbounded admiration by her capacity for getting on with people. harkey, a long, lank texan, was unusually friendly for one with a saturnine disposition, and, as long as his theory that gold grew was not challenged, was quite companionable. the fourth member of the party, michael dennin, contributed his irish wit to the gayety of the cabin. he was a large, powerful man, prone to sudden rushes of anger over little things, and of unfailing good-humor under the stress and strain of big things. the fifth and last member, dutchy, was the willing butt of the party. he even went out of his way to raise a laugh at his own expense in order to keep things cheerful. his deliberate aim in life seemed to be that of a maker of laughter. no serious quarrel had ever vexed the serenity of the party; and, now that each had sixteen hundred dollars to show for a short summer's work, there reigned the well-fed, contented spirit of prosperity. and then the unexpected happened. they had just sat down to the breakfast table. though it was already eight o'clock (late breakfasts had followed naturally upon cessation of the steady work at mining) a candle in the neck of a bottle lighted the meal. edith and hans sat at each end of the table. on one side, with their backs to the door, sat harkey and dutchy. the place on the other side was vacant. dennin had not yet come in. hans nelson looked at the empty chair, shook his head slowly, and, with a ponderous attempt at humor, said: "always is he first at the grub. it is very strange. maybe he is sick." "where is michael?" edith asked. "got up a little ahead of us and went outside," harkey answered. dutchy's face beamed mischievously. he pretended knowledge of dennin's absence, and affected a mysterious air, while they clamored for information. edith, after a peep into the men's bunk-room, returned to the table. hans looked at her, and she shook her head. "he was never late at meal-time before," she remarked. "i cannot understand," said hans. "always has he the great appetite like the horse." "it is too bad," dutchy said, with a sad shake of his head. they were beginning to make merry over their comrade's absence. "it is a great pity!" dutchy volunteered. "what?" they demanded in chorus. "poor michael," was the mournful reply. "well, what's wrong with michael?" harkey asked. "he is not hungry no more," wailed dutchy. "he has lost der appetite. he do not like der grub." "not from the way he pitches into it up to his ears," remarked harkey. "he does dot shust to be politeful to mrs. nelson," was dutchy's quick retort. "i know, i know, and it is too pad. why is he not here? pecause he haf gone out. why haf he gone out? for der defelopment of der appetite. how does he defelop der appetite? he walks barefoots in der snow. ach! don't i know? it is der way der rich peoples chases after der appetite when it is no more and is running away. michael haf sixteen hundred dollars. he is rich peoples. he haf no appetite. derefore, pecause, he is chasing der appetite. shust you open der door und you will see his barefoots in der snow. no, you will not see der appetite. dot is shust his trouble. when he sees der appetite he will catch it und come to preak-fast." they burst into loud laughter at dutchy's nonsense. the sound had scarcely died away when the door opened and dennin came in. all turned to look at him. he was carrying a shot-gun. even as they looked, he lifted it to his shoulder and fired twice. at the first shot dutchy sank upon the table, overturning his mug of coffee, his yellow mop of hair dabbling in his plate of mush. his forehead, which pressed upon the near edge of the plate, tilted the plate up against his hair at an angle of forty-five degrees. harkey was in the air, in his spring to his feet, at the second shot, and he pitched face down upon the floor, his "my god!" gurgling and dying in his throat. it was the unexpected. hans and edith were stunned. they sat at the table with bodies tense, their eyes fixed in a fascinated gaze upon the murderer. dimly they saw him through the smoke of the powder, and in the silence nothing was to be heard save the drip-drip of dutchy's spilled coffee on the floor. dennin threw open the breech of the shot-gun, ejecting the empty shells. holding the gun with one hand, he reached with the other into his pocket for fresh shells. he was thrusting the shells into the gun when edith nelson was aroused to action. it was patent that he intended to kill hans and her. for a space of possibly three seconds of time she had been dazed and paralysed by the horrible and inconceivable form in which the unexpected had made its appearance. then she rose to it and grappled with it. she grappled with it concretely, making a cat-like leap for the murderer and gripping his neck-cloth with both her hands. the impact of her body sent him stumbling backward several steps. he tried to shake her loose and still retain his hold on the gun. this was awkward, for her firm-fleshed body had become a cat's. she threw herself to one side, and with her grip at his throat nearly jerked him to the floor. he straightened himself and whirled swiftly. still faithful to her hold, her body followed the circle of his whirl so that her feet left the floor, and she swung through the air fastened to his throat by her hands. the whirl culminated in a collision with a chair, and the man and woman crashed to the floor in a wild struggling fall that extended itself across half the length of the room. hans nelson was half a second behind his wife in rising to the unexpected. his nerve processed and mental processes were slower than hers. his was the grosser organism, and it had taken him half a second longer to perceive, and determine, and proceed to do. she had already flown at dennin and gripped his throat, when hans sprang to his feet. but her coolness was not his. he was in a blind fury, a berserker rage. at the instant he sprang from his chair his mouth opened and there issued forth a sound that was half roar, half bellow. the whirl of the two bodies had already started, and still roaring, or bellowing, he pursued this whirl down the room, overtaking it when it fell to the floor. hans hurled himself upon the prostrate man, striking madly with his fists. they were sledge-like blows, and when edith felt dennin's body relax she loosed her grip and rolled clear. she lay on the floor, panting and watching. the fury of blows continued to rain down. dennin did not seem to mind the blows. he did not even move. then it dawned upon her that he was unconscious. she cried out to hans to stop. she cried out again. but he paid no heed to her voice. she caught him by the arm, but her clinging to it merely impeded his effort. it was no reasoned impulse that stirred her to do what she then did. nor was it a sense of pity, nor obedience to the "thou shalt not" of religion. rather was it some sense of law, an ethic of her race and early environment, that compelled her to interpose her body between her husband and the helpless murderer. it was not until hans knew he was striking his wife that he ceased. he allowed himself to be shoved away by her in much the same way that a ferocious but obedient dog allows itself to be shoved away by its master. the analogy went even farther. deep in his throat, in an animal-like way, hans's rage still rumbled, and several times he made as though to spring back upon his prey and was only prevented by the woman's swiftly interposed body. back and farther back edith shoved her husband. she had never seen him in such a condition, and she was more frightened of him than she had been of dennin in the thick of the struggle. she could not believe that this raging beast was her hans, and with a shock she became suddenly aware of a shrinking, instinctive fear that he might snap her hand in his teeth like any wild animal. for some seconds, unwilling to hurt her, yet dogged in his desire to return to the attack, hans dodged back and forth. but she resolutely dodged with him, until the first glimmerings of reason returned and he gave over. both crawled to their feet. hans staggered back against the wall, where he leaned, his face working, in his throat the deep and continuous rumble that died away with the seconds and at last ceased. the time for the reaction had come. edith stood in the middle of the floor, wringing her hands, panting and gasping, her whole body trembling violently. hans looked at nothing, but edith's eyes wandered wildly from detail to detail of what had taken place. dennin lay without movement. the overturned chair, hurled onward in the mad whirl, lay near him. partly under him lay the shot-gun, still broken open at the breech. spilling out of his right hand were the two cartridges which he had failed to put into the gun and which he had clutched until consciousness left him. harkey lay on the floor, face downward, where he had fallen; while dutchy rested forward on the table, his yellow mop of hair buried in his mush- plate, the plate itself still tilted at an angle of forty-five degrees. this tilted plate fascinated her. why did it not fall down? it was ridiculous. it was not in the nature of things for a mush-plate to up- end itself on the table, even if a man or so had been killed. she glanced back at dennin, but her eyes returned to the tilted plate. it was so ridiculous! she felt a hysterical impulse to laugh. then she noticed the silence, and forgot the plate in a desire for something to happen. the monotonous drip of the coffee from the table to the floor merely emphasized the silence. why did not hans do something? say something? she looked at him and was about to speak, when she discovered that her tongue refused its wonted duty. there was a peculiar ache in her throat, and her mouth was dry and furry. she could only look at hans, who, in turn, looked at her. suddenly the silence was broken by a sharp, metallic clang. she screamed, jerking her eyes back to the table. the plate had fallen down. hans sighed as though awakening from sleep. the clang of the plate had aroused them to life in a new world. the cabin epitomized the new world in which they must thenceforth live and move. the old cabin was gone forever. the horizon of life was totally new and unfamiliar. the unexpected had swept its wizardry over the face of things, changing the perspective, juggling values, and shuffling the real and the unreal into perplexing confusion. "my god, hans!" was edith's first speech. he did not answer, but stared at her with horror. slowly his eyes wandered over the room, for the first time taking in its details. then he put on his cap and started for the door. "where are you going?" edith demanded, in an agony of apprehension. his hand was on the door-knob, and he half turned as he answered, "to dig some graves." "don't leave me, hans, with--" her eyes swept the room--"with this." "the graves must be dug sometime," he said. "but you do not know how many," she objected desperately. she noted his indecision, and added, "besides, i'll go with you and help." hans stepped back to the table and mechanically snuffed the candle. then between them they made the examination. both harkey and dutchy were dead--frightfully dead, because of the close range of the shot-gun. hans refused to go near dennin, and edith was forced to conduct this portion of the investigation by herself. "he isn't dead," she called to hans. he walked over and looked down at the murderer. "what did you say?" edith demanded, having caught the rumble of inarticulate speech in her husband's throat. "i said it was a damn shame that he isn't dead," came the reply. edith was bending over the body. "leave him alone," hans commanded harshly, in a strange voice. she looked at him in sudden alarm. he had picked up the shot-gun dropped by dennin and was thrusting in the shells. "what are you going to do?" she cried, rising swiftly from her bending position. hans did not answer, but she saw the shot-gun going to his shoulder. she grasped the muzzle with her hand and threw it up. "leave me alone!" he cried hoarsely. he tried to jerk the weapon away from her, but she came in closer and clung to him. "hans! hans! wake up!" she cried. "don't be crazy!" "he killed dutchy and harkey!" was her husband's reply; "and i am going to kill him." "but that is wrong," she objected. "there is the law." he sneered his incredulity of the law's potency in such a region, but he merely iterated, dispassionately, doggedly, "he killed dutchy and harkey." long she argued it with him, but the argument was one-sided, for he contented himself with repeating again and again, "he killed dutchy and harkey." but she could not escape from her childhood training nor from the blood that was in her. the heritage of law was hers, and right conduct, to her, was the fulfilment of the law. she could see no other righteous course to pursue. hans's taking the law in his own hands was no more justifiable than dennin's deed. two wrongs did not make a right, she contended, and there was only one way to punish dennin, and that was the legal way arranged by society. at last hans gave in to her. "all right," he said. "have it your own way. and to-morrow or next day look to see him kill you and me." she shook her head and held out her hand for the shot-gun. he started to hand it to her, then hesitated. "better let me shoot him," he pleaded. again she shook her head, and again he started to pass her the gun, when the door opened, and an indian, without knocking, came in. a blast of wind and flurry of snow came in with him. they turned and faced him, hans still holding the shot-gun. the intruder took in the scene without a quiver. his eyes embraced the dead and wounded in a sweeping glance. no surprise showed in his face, not even curiosity. harkey lay at his feet, but he took no notice of him. so far as he was concerned, harkey's body did not exist. "much wind," the indian remarked by way of salutation. "all well? very well?" hans, still grasping the gun, felt sure that the indian attributed to him the mangled corpses. he glanced appealingly at his wife. "good morning, negook," she said, her voice betraying her effort. "no, not very well. much trouble." "good-by, i go now, much hurry," the indian said, and without semblance of haste, with great deliberation stepping clear of a red pool on the floor, he opened the door and went out. the man and woman looked at each other. "he thinks we did it," hans gasped, "that i did it." edith was silent for a space. then she said, briefly, in a businesslike way: "never mind what he thinks. that will come after. at present we have two graves to dig. but first of all, we've got to tie up dennin so he can't escape." hans refused to touch dennin, but edith lashed him securely, hand and foot. then she and hans went out into the snow. the ground was frozen. it was impervious to a blow of the pick. they first gathered wood, then scraped the snow away and on the frozen surface built a fire. when the fire had burned for an hour, several inches of dirt had thawed. this they shovelled out, and then built a fresh fire. their descent into the earth progressed at the rate of two or three inches an hour. it was hard and bitter work. the flurrying snow did not permit the fire to burn any too well, while the wind cut through their clothes and chilled their bodies. they held but little conversation. the wind interfered with speech. beyond wondering at what could have been dennin's motive, they remained silent, oppressed by the horror of the tragedy. at one o'clock, looking toward the cabin, hans announced that he was hungry. "no, not now, hans," edith answered. "i couldn't go back alone into that cabin the way it is, and cook a meal." at two o'clock hans volunteered to go with her; but she held him to his work, and four o'clock found the two graves completed. they were shallow, not more than two feet deep, but they would serve the purpose. night had fallen. hans got the sled, and the two dead men were dragged through the darkness and storm to their frozen sepulchre. the funeral procession was anything but a pageant. the sled sank deep into the drifted snow and pulled hard. the man and the woman had eaten nothing since the previous day, and were weak from hunger and exhaustion. they had not the strength to resist the wind, and at times its buffets hurled them off their feet. on several occasions the sled was overturned, and they were compelled to reload it with its sombre freight. the last hundred feet to the graves was up a steep slope, and this they took on all fours, like sled-dogs, making legs of their arms and thrusting their hands into the snow. even so, they were twice dragged backward by the weight of the sled, and slid and fell down the hill, the living and the dead, the haul-ropes and the sled, in ghastly entanglement. "to-morrow i will put up head-boards with their names," hans said, when the graves were filled in. edith was sobbing. a few broken sentences had been all she was capable of in the way of a funeral service, and now her husband was compelled to half-carry her back to the cabin. dennin was conscious. he had rolled over and over on the floor in vain efforts to free himself. he watched hans and edith with glittering eyes, but made no attempt to speak. hans still refused to touch the murderer, and sullenly watched edith drag him across the floor to the men's bunk- room. but try as she would, she could not lift him from the floor into his bunk. "better let me shoot him, and we'll have no more trouble," hans said in final appeal. edith shook her head and bent again to her task. to her surprise the body rose easily, and she knew hans had relented and was helping her. then came the cleansing of the kitchen. but the floor still shrieked the tragedy, until hans planed the surface of the stained wood away and with the shavings made a fire in the stove. the days came and went. there was much of darkness and silence, broken only by the storms and the thunder on the beach of the freezing surf. hans was obedient to edith's slightest order. all his splendid initiative had vanished. she had elected to deal with dennin in her way, and so he left the whole matter in her hands. the murderer was a constant menace. at all times there was the chance that he might free himself from his bonds, and they were compelled to guard him day and night. the man or the woman sat always beside him, holding the loaded shot-gun. at first, edith tried eight-hour watches, but the continuous strain was too great, and afterwards she and hans relieved each other every four hours. as they had to sleep, and as the watches extended through the night, their whole waking time was expended in guarding dennin. they had barely time left over for the preparation of meals and the getting of firewood. since negook's inopportune visit, the indians had avoided the cabin. edith sent hans to their cabins to get them to take dennin down the coast in a canoe to the nearest white settlement or trading post, but the errand was fruitless. then edith went herself and interviewed negook. he was head man of the little village, keenly aware of his responsibility, and he elucidated his policy thoroughly in few words. "it is white man's trouble," he said, "not siwash trouble. my people help you, then will it be siwash trouble too. when white man's trouble and siwash trouble come together and make a trouble, it is a great trouble, beyond understanding and without end. trouble no good. my people do no wrong. what for they help you and have trouble?" so edith nelson went back to the terrible cabin with its endless alternating four-hour watches. sometimes, when it was her turn and she sat by the prisoner, the loaded shot-gun in her lap, her eyes would close and she would doze. always she aroused with a start, snatching up the gun and swiftly looking at him. these were distinct nervous shocks, and their effect was not good on her. such was her fear of the man, that even though she were wide awake, if he moved under the bedclothes she could not repress the start and the quick reach for the gun. she was preparing herself for a nervous break-down, and she knew it. first came a fluttering of the eyeballs, so that she was compelled to close her eyes for relief. a little later the eyelids were afflicted by a nervous twitching that she could not control. to add to the strain, she could not forget the tragedy. she remained as close to the horror as on the first morning when the unexpected stalked into the cabin and took possession. in her daily ministrations upon the prisoner she was forced to grit her teeth and steel herself, body and spirit. hans was affected differently. he became obsessed by the idea that it was his duty to kill dennin; and whenever he waited upon the bound man or watched by him, edith was troubled by the fear that hans would add another red entry to the cabin's record. always he cursed dennin savagely and handled him roughly. hans tried to conceal his homicidal mania, and he would say to his wife: "by and by you will want me to kill him, and then i will not kill him. it would make me sick." but more than once, stealing into the room, when it was her watch off, she would catch the two men glaring ferociously at each other, wild animals the pair of them, in hans's face the lust to kill, in dennin's the fierceness and savagery of the cornered rat. "hans!" she would cry, "wake up!" and he would come to a recollection of himself, startled and shamefaced and unrepentant. so hans became another factor in the problem the unexpected had given edith nelson to solve. at first it had been merely a question of right conduct in dealing with dennin, and right conduct, as she conceived it, lay in keeping him a prisoner until he could be turned over for trial before a proper tribunal. but now entered hans, and she saw that his sanity and his salvation were involved. nor was she long in discovering that her own strength and endurance had become part of the problem. she was breaking down under the strain. her left arm had developed involuntary jerkings and twitchings. she spilled her food from her spoon, and could place no reliance in her afflicted arm. she judged it to be a form of st. vitus's dance, and she feared the extent to which its ravages might go. what if she broke down? and the vision she had of the possible future, when the cabin might contain only dennin and hans, was an added horror. after the third day, dennin had begun to talk. his first question had been, "what are you going to do with me?" and this question he repeated daily and many times a day. and always edith replied that he would assuredly be dealt with according to law. in turn, she put a daily question to him,--"why did you do it?" to this he never replied. also, he received the question with out-bursts of anger, raging and straining at the rawhide that bound him and threatening her with what he would do when he got loose, which he said he was sure to do sooner or later. at such times she cocked both triggers of the gun, prepared to meet him with leaden death if he should burst loose, herself trembling and palpitating and dizzy from the tension and shock. but in time dennin grew more tractable. it seemed to her that he was growing weary of his unchanging recumbent position. he began to beg and plead to be released. he made wild promises. he would do them no harm. he would himself go down the coast and give himself up to the officers of the law. he would give them his share of the gold. he would go away into the heart of the wilderness, and never again appear in civilization. he would take his own life if she would only free him. his pleadings usually culminated in involuntary raving, until it seemed to her that he was passing into a fit; but always she shook her head and denied him the freedom for which he worked himself into a passion. but the weeks went by, and he continued to grow more tractable. and through it all the weariness was asserting itself more and more. "i am so tired, so tired," he would murmur, rolling his head back and forth on the pillow like a peevish child. at a little later period he began to make impassioned pleas for death, to beg her to kill him, to beg hans to put him our of his misery so that he might at least rest comfortably. the situation was fast becoming impossible. edith's nervousness was increasing, and she knew her break-down might come any time. she could not even get her proper rest, for she was haunted by the fear that hans would yield to his mania and kill dennin while she slept. though january had already come, months would have to elapse before any trading schooner was even likely to put into the bay. also, they had not expected to winter in the cabin, and the food was running low; nor could hans add to the supply by hunting. they were chained to the cabin by the necessity of guarding their prisoner. something must be done, and she knew it. she forced herself to go back into a reconsideration of the problem. she could not shake off the legacy of her race, the law that was of her blood and that had been trained into her. she knew that whatever she did she must do according to the law, and in the long hours of watching, the shot-gun on her knees, the murderer restless beside her and the storms thundering without, she made original sociological researches and worked out for herself the evolution of the law. it came to her that the law was nothing more than the judgment and the will of any group of people. it mattered not how large was the group of people. there were little groups, she reasoned, like switzerland, and there were big groups like the united states. also, she reasoned, it did not matter how small was the group of people. there might be only ten thousand people in a country, yet their collective judgment and will would be the law of that country. why, then, could not one thousand people constitute such a group? she asked herself. and if one thousand, why not one hundred? why not fifty? why not five? why not--two? she was frightened at her own conclusion, and she talked it over with hans. at first he could not comprehend, and then, when he did, he added convincing evidence. he spoke of miners' meetings, where all the men of a locality came together and made the law and executed the law. there might be only ten or fifteen men altogether, he said, but the will of the majority became the law for the whole ten or fifteen, and whoever violated that will was punished. edith saw her way clear at last. dennin must hang. hans agreed with her. between them they constituted the majority of this particular group. it was the group-will that dennin should be hanged. in the execution of this will edith strove earnestly to observe the customary forms, but the group was so small that hans and she had to serve as witnesses, as jury, and as judges--also as executioners. she formally charged michael dennin with the murder of dutchy and harkey, and the prisoner lay in his bunk and listened to the testimony, first of hans, and then of edith. he refused to plead guilty or not guilty, and remained silent when she asked him if he had anything to say in his own defence. she and hans, without leaving their seats, brought in the jury's verdict of guilty. then, as judge, she imposed the sentence. her voice shook, her eyelids twitched, her left arm jerked, but she carried it out. "michael dennin, in three days' time you are to be hanged by the neck until you are dead." such was the sentence. the man breathed an unconscious sigh of relief, then laughed defiantly, and said, "thin i'm thinkin' the damn bunk won't be achin' me back anny more, an' that's a consolation." with the passing of the sentence a feeling of relief seemed to communicate itself to all of them. especially was it noticeable in dennin. all sullenness and defiance disappeared, and he talked sociably with his captors, and even with flashes of his old-time wit. also, he found great satisfaction in edith's reading to him from the bible. she read from the new testament, and he took keen interest in the prodigal son and the thief on the cross. on the day preceding that set for the execution, when edith asked her usual question, "why did you do it?" dennin answered, "'tis very simple. i was thinkin'--" but she hushed him abruptly, asked him to wait, and hurried to hans's bedside. it was his watch off, and he came out of his sleep, rubbing his eyes and grumbling. "go," she told him, "and bring up negook and one other indian. michael's going to confess. make them come. take the rifle along and bring them up at the point of it if you have to." half an hour later negook and his uncle, hadikwan, were ushered into the death chamber. they came unwillingly, hans with his rifle herding them along. "negook," edith said, "there is to be no trouble for you and your people. only is it for you to sit and do nothing but listen and understand." thus did michael dennin, under sentence of death, make public confession of his crime. as he talked, edith wrote his story down, while the indians listened, and hans guarded the door for fear the witnesses might bolt. he had not been home to the old country for fifteen years, dennin explained, and it had always been his intention to return with plenty of money and make his old mother comfortable for the rest of her days. "an' how was i to be doin' it on sixteen hundred?" he demanded. "what i was after wantin' was all the goold, the whole eight thousan'. thin i cud go back in style. what ud be aisier, thinks i to myself, than to kill all iv yez, report it at skaguay for an indian-killin', an' thin pull out for ireland? an' so i started in to kill all iv yez, but, as harkey was fond of sayin', i cut out too large a chunk an' fell down on the swallowin' iv it. an' that's me confession. i did me duty to the devil, an' now, god willin', i'll do me duty to god." "negook and hadikwan, you have heard the white man's words," edith said to the indians. "his words are here on this paper, and it is for you to make a sign, thus, on the paper, so that white men to come after will know that you have heard." the two siwashes put crosses opposite their signatures, received a summons to appear on the morrow with all their tribe for a further witnessing of things, and were allowed to go. dennin's hands were released long enough for him to sign the document. then a silence fell in the room. hans was restless, and edith felt uncomfortable. dennin lay on his back, staring straight up at the moss- chinked roof. "an' now i'll do me duty to god," he murmured. he turned his head toward edith. "read to me," he said, "from the book;" then added, with a glint of playfulness, "mayhap 'twill help me to forget the bunk." the day of the execution broke clear and cold. the thermometer was down to twenty-five below zero, and a chill wind was blowing which drove the frost through clothes and flesh to the bones. for the first time in many weeks dennin stood upon his feet. his muscles had remained inactive so long, and he was so out of practice in maintaining an erect position, that he could scarcely stand. he reeled back and forth, staggered, and clutched hold of edith with his bound hands for support. "sure, an' it's dizzy i am," he laughed weakly. a moment later he said, "an' it's glad i am that it's over with. that damn bunk would iv been the death iv me, i know." when edith put his fur cap on his head and proceeded to pull the flaps down over his ears, he laughed and said: "what are you doin' that for?" "it's freezing cold outside," she answered. "an' in tin minutes' time what'll matter a frozen ear or so to poor michael dennin?" he asked. she had nerved herself for the last culminating ordeal, and his remark was like a blow to her self-possession. so far, everything had seemed phantom-like, as in a dream, but the brutal truth of what he had said shocked her eyes wide open to the reality of what was taking place. nor was her distress unnoticed by the irishman. "i'm sorry to be troublin' you with me foolish spache," he said regretfully. "i mint nothin' by it. 'tis a great day for michael dennin, an' he's as gay as a lark." he broke out in a merry whistle, which quickly became lugubrious and ceased. "i'm wishin' there was a priest," he said wistfully; then added swiftly, "but michael dennin's too old a campaigner to miss the luxuries when he hits the trail." he was so very weak and unused to walking that when the door opened and he passed outside, the wind nearly carried him off his feet. edith and hans walked on either side of him and supported him, the while he cracked jokes and tried to keep them cheerful, breaking off, once, long enough to arrange the forwarding of his share of the gold to his mother in ireland. they climbed a slight hill and came out into an open space among the trees. here, circled solemnly about a barrel that stood on end in the snow, were negook and hadikwan, and all the siwashes down to the babies and the dogs, come to see the way of the white man's law. near by was an open grave which hans had burned into the frozen earth. dennin cast a practical eye over the preparations, noting the grave, the barrel, the thickness of the rope, and the diameter of the limb over which the rope was passed. "sure, an' i couldn't iv done better meself, hans, if it'd been for you." he laughed loudly at his own sally, but hans's face was frozen into a sullen ghastliness that nothing less than the trump of doom could have broken. also, hans was feeling very sick. he had not realized the enormousness of the task of putting a fellow-man out of the world. edith, on the other hand, had realized; but the realization did not make the task any easier. she was filled with doubt as to whether she could hold herself together long enough to finish it. she felt incessant impulses to scream, to shriek, to collapse into the snow, to put her hands over her eyes and turn and run blindly away, into the forest, anywhere, away. it was only by a supreme effort of soul that she was able to keep upright and go on and do what she had to do. and in the midst of it all she was grateful to dennin for the way he helped her. "lind me a hand," he said to hans, with whose assistance he managed to mount the barrel. he bent over so that edith could adjust the rope about his neck. then he stood upright while hans drew the rope taut across the overhead branch. "michael dennin, have you anything to say?" edith asked in a clear voice that shook in spite of her. dennin shuffled his feet on the barrel, looked down bashfully like a man making his maiden speech, and cleared his throat. "i'm glad it's over with," he said. "you've treated me like a christian, an' i'm thankin' you hearty for your kindness." "then may god receive you, a repentant sinner," she said. "ay," he answered, his deep voice as a response to her thin one, "may god receive me, a repentant sinner." "good-by, michael," she cried, and her voice sounded desperate. she threw her weight against the barrel, but it did not overturn. "hans! quick! help me!" she cried faintly. she could feel her last strength going, and the barrel resisted her. hans hurried to her, and the barrel went out from under michael dennin. she turned her back, thrusting her fingers into her ears. then she began to laugh, harshly, sharply, metallically; and hans was shocked as he had not been shocked through the whole tragedy. edith nelson's break-down had come. even in her hysteria she knew it, and she was glad that she had been able to hold up under the strain until everything had been accomplished. she reeled toward hans. "take me to the cabin, hans," she managed to articulate. "and let me rest," she added. "just let me rest, and rest, and rest." with hans's arm around her, supporting her weight and directing her helpless steps, she went off across the snow. but the indians remained solemnly to watch the working of the white man's law that compelled a man to dance upon the air. brown wolf she had delayed, because of the dew-wet grass, in order to put on her overshoes, and when she emerged from the house found her waiting husband absorbed in the wonder of a bursting almond-bud. she sent a questing glance across the tall grass and in and out among the orchard trees. "where's wolf?" she asked. "he was here a moment ago." walt irvine drew himself away with a jerk from the metaphysics and poetry of the organic miracle of blossom, and surveyed the landscape. "he was running a rabbit the last i saw of him." "wolf! wolf! here wolf!" she called, as they left the clearing and took the trail that led down through the waxen-belled manzanita jungle to the county road. irvine thrust between his lips the little finger of each hand and lent to her efforts a shrill whistling. she covered her ears hastily and made a wry grimace. "my! for a poet, delicately attuned and all the rest of it, you can make unlovely noises. my ear-drums are pierced. you outwhistle--" "orpheus." "i was about to say a street-arab," she concluded severely. "poesy does not prevent one from being practical--at least it doesn't prevent _me_. mine is no futility of genius that can't sell gems to the magazines." he assumed a mock extravagance, and went on: "i am no attic singer, no ballroom warbler. and why? because i am practical. mine is no squalor of song that cannot transmute itself, with proper exchange value, into a flower-crowned cottage, a sweet mountain- meadow, a grove of redwoods, an orchard of thirty-seven trees, one long row of blackberries and two short rows of strawberries, to say nothing of a quarter of a mile of gurgling brook. i am a beauty-merchant, a trader in song, and i pursue utility, dear madge. i sing a song, and thanks to the magazine editors i transmute my song into a waft of the west wind sighing through our redwoods, into a murmur of waters over mossy stones that sings back to me another song than the one i sang and yet the same song wonderfully--er--transmuted." "o that all your song-transmutations were as successful!" she laughed. "name one that wasn't." "those two beautiful sonnets that you transmuted into the cow that was accounted the worst milker in the township." "she was beautiful--" he began, "but she didn't give milk," madge interrupted. "but she _was_ beautiful, now, wasn't she?" he insisted. "and here's where beauty and utility fall out," was her reply. "and there's the wolf!" from the thicket-covered hillside came a crashing of underbrush, and then, forty feet above them, on the edge of the sheer wall of rock, appeared a wolf's head and shoulders. his braced fore paws dislodged a pebble, and with sharp-pricked ears and peering eyes he watched the fall of the pebble till it struck at their feet. then he transferred his gaze and with open mouth laughed down at them. "you wolf, you!" and "you blessed wolf!" the man and woman called out to him. the ears flattened back and down at the sound, and the head seemed to snuggle under the caress of an invisible hand. they watched him scramble backward into the thicket, then proceeded on their way. several minutes later, rounding a turn in the trail where the descent was less precipitous, he joined them in the midst of a miniature avalanche of pebbles and loose soil. he was not demonstrative. a pat and a rub around the ears from the man, and a more prolonged caressing from the woman, and he was away down the trail in front of them, gliding effortlessly over the ground in true wolf fashion. in build and coat and brush he was a huge timber-wolf; but the lie was given to his wolfhood by his color and marking. there the dog unmistakably advertised itself. no wolf was ever colored like him. he was brown, deep brown, red-brown, an orgy of browns. back and shoulders were a warm brown that paled on the sides and underneath to a yellow that was dingy because of the brown that lingered in it. the white of the throat and paws and the spots over the eyes was dirty because of the persistent and ineradicable brown, while the eyes themselves were twin topazes, golden and brown. the man and woman loved the dog very much; perhaps this was because it had been such a task to win his love. it had been no easy matter when he first drifted in mysteriously out of nowhere to their little mountain cottage. footsore and famished, he had killed a rabbit under their very noses and under their very windows, and then crawled away and slept by the spring at the foot of the blackberry bushes. when walt irvine went down to inspect the intruder, he was snarled at for his pains, and madge likewise was snarled at when she went down to present, as a peace-offering, a large pan of bread and milk. a most unsociable dog he proved to be, resenting all their advances, refusing to let them lay hands on him, menacing them with bared fangs and bristling hair. nevertheless he remained, sleeping and resting by the spring, and eating the food they gave him after they set it down at a safe distance and retreated. his wretched physical condition explained why he lingered; and when he had recuperated, after several days' sojourn, he disappeared. and this would have been the end of him, so far as irvine and his wife were concerned, had not irvine at that particular time been called away into the northern part of the state. riding along on the train, near to the line between california and oregon, he chanced to look out of the window and saw his unsociable guest sliding along the wagon road, brown and wolfish, tired yet tireless, dust-covered and soiled with two hundred miles of travel. now irvine was a man of impulse, a poet. he got off the train at the next station, bought a piece of meat at a butcher shop, and captured the vagrant on the outskirts of the town. the return trip was made in the baggage car, and so wolf came a second time to the mountain cottage. here he was tied up for a week and made love to by the man and woman. but it was very circumspect love-making. remote and alien as a traveller from another planet, he snarled down their soft-spoken love-words. he never barked. in all the time they had him he was never known to bark. to win him became a problem. irvine liked problems. he had a metal plate made, on which was stamped: return to walt irvine, glen ellen, sonoma county, california. this was riveted to a collar and strapped about the dog's neck. then he was turned loose, and promptly he disappeared. a day later came a telegram from mendocino county. in twenty hours he had made over a hundred miles to the north, and was still going when captured. he came back by wells fargo express, was tied up three days, and was loosed on the fourth and lost. this time he gained southern oregon before he was caught and returned. always, as soon as he received his liberty, he fled away, and always he fled north. he was possessed of an obsession that drove him north. the homing instinct, irvine called it, after he had expended the selling price of a sonnet in getting the animal back from northern oregon. another time the brown wanderer succeeded in traversing half the length of california, all of oregon, and most of washington, before he was picked up and returned "collect." a remarkable thing was the speed with which he travelled. fed up and rested, as soon as he was loosed he devoted all his energy to getting over the ground. on the first day's run he was known to cover as high as a hundred and fifty miles, and after that he would average a hundred miles a day until caught. he always arrived back lean and hungry and savage, and always departed fresh and vigorous, cleaving his way northward in response to some prompting of his being that no one could understand. but at last, after a futile year of flight, he accepted the inevitable and elected to remain at the cottage where first he had killed the rabbit and slept by the spring. even after that, a long time elapsed before the man and woman succeeded in patting him. it was a great victory, for they alone were allowed to put hands on him. he was fastidiously exclusive, and no guest at the cottage ever succeeded in making up to him. a low growl greeted such approach; if any one had the hardihood to come nearer, the lips lifted, the naked fangs appeared, and the growl became a snarl--a snarl so terrible and malignant that it awed the stoutest of them, as it likewise awed the farmers' dogs that knew ordinary dog-snarling, but had never seen wolf-snarling before. he was without antecedents. his history began with walt and madge. he had come up from the south, but never a clew did they get of the owner from whom he had evidently fled. mrs. johnson, their nearest neighbor and the one who supplied them with milk, proclaimed him a klondike dog. her brother was burrowing for frozen pay-streaks in that far country, and so she constituted herself an authority on the subject. but they did not dispute her. there were the tips of wolf's ears, obviously so severely frozen at some time that they would never quite heal again. besides, he looked like the photographs of the alaskan dogs they saw published in magazines and newspapers. they often speculated over his past, and tried to conjure up (from what they had read and heard) what his northland life had been. that the northland still drew him, they knew; for at night they sometimes heard him crying softly; and when the north wind blew and the bite of frost was in the air, a great restlessness would come upon him and he would lift a mournful lament which they knew to be the long wolf-howl. yet he never barked. no provocation was great enough to draw from him that canine cry. long discussion they had, during the time of winning him, as to whose dog he was. each claimed him, and each proclaimed loudly any expression of affection made by him. but the man had the better of it at first, chiefly because he was a man. it was patent that wolf had had no experience with women. he did not understand women. madge's skirts were something he never quite accepted. the swish of them was enough to set him a-bristle with suspicion, and on a windy day she could not approach him at all. on the other hand, it was madge who fed him; also it was she who ruled the kitchen, and it was by her favor, and her favor alone, that he was permitted to come within that sacred precinct. it was because of these things that she bade fair to overcome the handicap of her garments. then it was that walt put forth special effort, making it a practice to have wolf lie at his feet while he wrote, and, between petting and talking, losing much time from his work. walt won in the end, and his victory was most probably due to the fact that he was a man, though madge averred that they would have had another quarter of a mile of gurgling brook, and at least two west winds sighing through their redwoods, had wait properly devoted his energies to song-transmutation and left wolf alone to exercise a natural taste and an unbiassed judgment. "it's about time i heard from those triolets," walt said, after a silence of five minutes, during which they had swung steadily down the trail. "there'll be a check at the post-office, i know, and we'll transmute it into beautiful buckwheat flour, a gallon of maple syrup, and a new pair of overshoes for you." "and into beautiful milk from mrs. johnson's beautiful cow," madge added. "to-morrow's the first of the month, you know." walt scowled unconsciously; then his face brightened, and he clapped his hand to his breast pocket. "never mind. i have here a nice beautiful new cow, the best milker in california." "when did you write it?" she demanded eagerly. then, reproachfully, "and you never showed it to me." "i saved it to read to you on the way to the post-office, in a spot remarkably like this one," he answered, indicating, with a wave of his hand, a dry log on which to sit. a tiny stream flowed out of a dense fern-brake, slipped down a mossy-lipped stone, and ran across the path at their feet. from the valley arose the mellow song of meadow-larks, while about them, in and out, through sunshine and shadow, fluttered great yellow butterflies. up from below came another sound that broke in upon walt reading softly from his manuscript. it was a crunching of heavy feet, punctuated now and again by the clattering of a displaced stone. as walt finished and looked to his wife for approval, a man came into view around the turn of the trail. he was bare-headed and sweaty. with a handkerchief in one hand he mopped his face, while in the other hand he carried a new hat and a wilted starched collar which he had removed from his neck. he was a well-built man, and his muscles seemed on the point of bursting out of the painfully new and ready-made black clothes he wore. "warm day," walt greeted him. walt believed in country democracy, and never missed an opportunity to practise it. the man paused and nodded. "i guess i ain't used much to the warm," he vouchsafed half apologetically. "i'm more accustomed to zero weather." "you don't find any of that in this country," walt laughed. "should say not," the man answered. "an' i ain't here a-lookin' for it neither. i'm tryin' to find my sister. mebbe you know where she lives. her name's johnson, mrs. william johnson." "you're not her klondike brother!" madge cried, her eyes bright with interest, "about whom we've heard so much?" "yes'm, that's me," he answered modestly. "my name's miller, skiff miller. i just thought i'd s'prise her." "you are on the right track then. only you've come by the foot-path." madge stood up to direct him, pointing up the canyon a quarter of a mile. "you see that blasted redwood? take the little trail turning off to the right. it's the short cut to her house. you can't miss it." "yes'm, thank you, ma'am," he said. he made tentative efforts to go, but seemed awkwardly rooted to the spot. he was gazing at her with an open admiration of which he was quite unconscious, and which was drowning, along with him, in the rising sea of embarrassment in which he floundered. "we'd like to hear you tell about the klondike," madge said. "mayn't we come over some day while you are at your sister's? or, better yet, won't you come over and have dinner with us?" "yes'm, thank you, ma'am," he mumbled mechanically. then he caught himself up and added: "i ain't stoppin' long. i got to be pullin' north again. i go out on to-night's train. you see, i've got a mail contract with the government." when madge had said that it was too bad, he made another futile effort to go. but he could not take his eyes from her face. he forgot his embarrassment in his admiration, and it was her turn to flush and feel uncomfortable. it was at this juncture, when walt had just decided it was time for him to be saying something to relieve the strain, that wolf, who had been away nosing through the brush, trotted wolf-like into view. skiff miller's abstraction disappeared. the pretty woman before him passed out of his field of vision. he had eyes only for the dog, and a great wonder came into his face. "well, i'll be damned!" he enunciated slowly and solemnly. he sat down ponderingly on the log, leaving madge standing. at the sound of his voice, wolf's ears had flattened down, then his mouth had opened in a laugh. he trotted slowly up to the stranger and first smelled his hands, then licked them with his tongue. skiff miller patted the dog's head, and slowly and solemnly repeated, "well, i'll be damned!" "excuse me, ma'am," he said the next moment "i was just s'prised some, that was all." "we're surprised, too," she answered lightly. "we never saw wolf make up to a stranger before." "is that what you call him--wolf?" the man asked. madge nodded. "but i can't understand his friendliness toward you--unless it's because you're from the klondike. he's a klondike dog, you know." "yes'm," miller said absently. he lifted one of wolf's fore legs and examined the foot-pads, pressing them and denting them with his thumb. "kind of soft," he remarked. "he ain't been on trail for a long time." "i say," walt broke in, "it is remarkable the way he lets you handle him." skiff miller arose, no longer awkward with admiration of madge, and in a sharp, businesslike manner asked, "how long have you had him?" but just then the dog, squirming and rubbing against the newcomer's legs, opened his mouth and barked. it was an explosive bark, brief and joyous, but a bark. "that's a new one on me," skiff miller remarked. walt and madge stared at each other. the miracle had happened. wolf had barked. "it's the first time he ever barked," madge said. "first time i ever heard him, too," miller volunteered. madge smiled at him. the man was evidently a humorist. "of course," she said, "since you have only seen him for five minutes." skiff miller looked at her sharply, seeking in her face the guile her words had led him to suspect. "i thought you understood," he said slowly. "i thought you'd tumbled to it from his makin' up to me. he's my dog. his name ain't wolf. it's brown." "oh, walt!" was madge's instinctive cry to her husband. walt was on the defensive at once. "how do you know he's your dog?" he demanded. "because he is," was the reply. "mere assertion," walt said sharply. in his slow and pondering way, skiff miller looked at him, then asked, with a nod of his head toward madge: "how d'you know she's your wife? you just say, 'because she is,' and i'll say it's mere assertion. the dog's mine. i bred 'm an' raised 'm, an' i guess i ought to know. look here. i'll prove it to you." skiff miller turned to the dog. "brown!" his voice rang out sharply, and at the sound the dog's ears flattened down as to a caress. "gee!" the dog made a swinging turn to the right. "now mush-on!" and the dog ceased his swing abruptly and started straight ahead, halting obediently at command. "i can do it with whistles," skiff miller said proudly. "he was my lead dog." "but you are not going to take him away with you?" madge asked tremulously. the man nodded. "back into that awful klondike world of suffering?" he nodded and added: "oh, it ain't so bad as all that. look at me. pretty healthy specimen, ain't i?" "but the dogs! the terrible hardship, the heart-breaking toil, the starvation, the frost! oh, i've read about it and i know." "i nearly ate him once, over on little fish river," miller volunteered grimly. "if i hadn't got a moose that day was all that saved 'm." "i'd have died first!" madge cried. "things is different down here," miller explained. "you don't have to eat dogs. you think different just about the time you're all in. you've never ben all in, so you don't know anything about it." "that's the very point," she argued warmly. "dogs are not eaten in california. why not leave him here? he is happy. he'll never want for food--you know that. he'll never suffer from cold and hardship. here all is softness and gentleness. neither the human nor nature is savage. he will never know a whip-lash again. and as for the weather--why, it never snows here." "but it's all-fired hot in summer, beggin' your pardon," skiff miller laughed. "but you do not answer," madge continued passionately. "what have you to offer him in that northland life?" "grub, when i've got it, and that's most of the time," came the answer. "and the rest of the time?" "no grub." "and the work?" "yes, plenty of work," miller blurted out impatiently. "work without end, an' famine, an' frost, an all the rest of the miseries--that's what he'll get when he comes with me. but he likes it. he is used to it. he knows that life. he was born to it an' brought up to it. an' you don't know anything about it. you don't know what you're talking about. that's where the dog belongs, and that's where he'll be happiest." "the dog doesn't go," walt announced in a determined voice. "so there is no need of further discussion." "what's that?" skiff miller demanded, his brows lowering and an obstinate flush of blood reddening his forehead. "i said the dog doesn't go, and that settles it. i don't believe he's your dog. you may have seen him sometime. you may even sometime have driven him for his owner. but his obeying the ordinary driving commands of the alaskan trail is no demonstration that he is yours. any dog in alaska would obey you as he obeyed. besides, he is undoubtedly a valuable dog, as dogs go in alaska, and that is sufficient explanation of your desire to get possession of him. anyway, you've got to prove property." skiff miller, cool and collected, the obstinate flush a trifle deeper on his forehead, his huge muscles bulging under the black cloth of his coat, carefully looked the poet up and down as though measuring the strength of his slenderness. the klondiker's face took on a contemptuous expression as he said finally, "i reckon there's nothin' in sight to prevent me takin' the dog right here an' now." walt's face reddened, and the striking-muscles of his arms and shoulders seemed to stiffen and grow tense. his wife fluttered apprehensively into the breach. "maybe mr. miller is right," she said. "i am afraid that he is. wolf does seem to know him, and certainly he answers to the name of 'brown.' he made friends with him instantly, and you know that's something he never did with anybody before. besides, look at the way he barked. he was just bursting with joy. joy over what? without doubt at finding mr. miller." walt's striking-muscles relaxed, and his shoulders seemed to droop with hopelessness. "i guess you're right, madge," he said. "wolf isn't wolf, but brown, and he must belong to mr. miller." "perhaps mr. miller will sell him," she suggested. "we can buy him." skiff miller shook his head, no longer belligerent, but kindly, quick to be generous in response to generousness. "i had five dogs," he said, casting about for the easiest way to temper his refusal. "he was the leader. they was the crack team of alaska. nothin' could touch 'em. in i refused five thousand dollars for the bunch. dogs was high, then, anyway; but that wasn't what made the fancy price. it was the team itself. brown was the best in the team. that winter i refused twelve hundred for 'm. i didn't sell 'm then, an' i ain't a-sellin' 'm now. besides, i think a mighty lot of that dog. i've ben lookin' for 'm for three years. it made me fair sick when i found he'd ben stole--not the value of him, but the--well, i liked 'm like hell, that's all, beggin' your pardon. i couldn't believe my eyes when i seen 'm just now. i thought i was dreamin'. it was too good to be true. why, i was his wet-nurse. i put 'm to bed, snug every night. his mother died, and i brought 'm up on condensed milk at two dollars a can when i couldn't afford it in my own coffee. he never knew any mother but me. he used to suck my finger regular, the darn little cuss--that finger right there!" and skiff miller, too overwrought for speech, held up a fore finger for them to see. "that very finger," he managed to articulate, as though it somehow clinched the proof of ownership and the bond of affection. he was still gazing at his extended finger when madge began to speak. "but the dog," she said. "you haven't considered the dog." skiff miller looked puzzled. "have you thought about him?" she asked. "don't know what you're drivin' at," was the response. "maybe the dog has some choice in the matter," madge went on. "maybe he has his likes and desires. you have not considered him. you give him no choice. it has never entered your mind that possibly he might prefer california to alaska. you consider only what you like. you do with him as you would with a sack of potatoes or a bale of hay." this was a new way of looking at it, and miller was visibly impressed as he debated it in his mind. madge took advantage of his indecision. "if you really love him, what would be happiness to him would be your happiness also," she urged. skiff miller continued to debate with himself, and madge stole a glance of exultation to her husband, who looked back warm approval. "what do you think?" the klondiker suddenly demanded. it was her turn to be puzzled. "what do you mean?" she asked. "d'ye think he'd sooner stay in california?" she nodded her head with positiveness. "i am sure of it." skiff miller again debated with himself, though this time aloud, at the same time running his gaze in a judicial way over the mooted animal. "he was a good worker. he's done a heap of work for me. he never loafed on me, an' he was a joe-dandy at hammerin' a raw team into shape. he's got a head on him. he can do everything but talk. he knows what you say to him. look at 'm now. he knows we're talkin' about him." the dog was lying at skiff miller's feet, head close down on paws, ears erect and listening, and eyes that were quick and eager to follow the sound of speech as it fell from the lips of first one and then the other. "an' there's a lot of work in 'm yet. he's good for years to come. an' i do like him. i like him like hell." once or twice after that skiff miller opened his mouth and closed it again without speaking. finally he said: "i'll tell you what i'll do. your remarks, ma'am, has some weight in them. the dog's worked hard, and maybe he's earned a soft berth an' has got a right to choose. anyway, we'll leave it up to him. whatever he says, goes. you people stay right here settin' down. i'll say good-by and walk off casual-like. if he wants to stay, he can stay. if he wants to come with me, let 'm come. i won't call 'm to come an' don't you call 'm to come back." he looked with sudden suspicion at madge, and added, "only you must play fair. no persuadin' after my back is turned." "we'll play fair," madge began, but skiff miller broke in on her assurances. "i know the ways of women," he announced. "their hearts is soft. when their hearts is touched they're likely to stack the cards, look at the bottom of the deck, an' lie like the devil--beggin' your pardon, ma'am. i'm only discoursin' about women in general." "i don't know how to thank you," madge quavered. "i don't see as you've got any call to thank me," he replied. "brown ain't decided yet. now you won't mind if i go away slow? it's no more'n fair, seein' i'll be out of sight inside a hundred yards."--madge agreed, and added, "and i promise you faithfully that we won't do anything to influence him." "well, then, i might as well be gettin' along," skiff miller said in the ordinary tones of one departing. at this change in his voice, wolf lifted his head quickly, and still more quickly got to his feet when the man and woman shook hands. he sprang up on his hind legs, resting his fore paws on her hip and at the same time licking skiff miller's hand. when the latter shook hands with walt, wolf repeated his act, resting his weight on walt and licking both men's hands. "it ain't no picnic, i can tell you that," were the klondiker's last words, as he turned and went slowly up the trail. for the distance of twenty feet wolf watched him go, himself all eagerness and expectancy, as though waiting for the man to turn and retrace his steps. then, with a quick low whine, wolf sprang after him, overtook him, caught his hand between his teeth with reluctant tenderness, and strove gently to make him pause. failing in this, wolf raced back to where walt irvine sat, catching his coat-sleeve in his teeth and trying vainly to drag him after the retreating man. wolf's perturbation began to wax. he desired ubiquity. he wanted to be in two places at the same time, with the old master and the new, and steadily the distance between them was increasing. he sprang about excitedly, making short nervous leaps and twists, now toward one, now toward the other, in painful indecision, not knowing his own mind, desiring both and unable to choose, uttering quick sharp whines and beginning to pant. he sat down abruptly on his haunches, thrusting his nose upward, the mouth opening and closing with jerking movements, each time opening wider. these jerking movements were in unison with the recurrent spasms that attacked the throat, each spasm severer and more intense than the preceding one. and in accord with jerks and spasms the larynx began to vibrate, at first silently, accompanied by the rush of air expelled from the lungs, then sounding a low, deep note, the lowest in the register of the human ear. all this was the nervous and muscular preliminary to howling. but just as the howl was on the verge of bursting from the full throat, the wide-opened mouth was closed, the paroxysms ceased, and he looked long and steadily at the retreating man. suddenly wolf turned his head, and over his shoulder just as steadily regarded walt. the appeal was unanswered. not a word nor a sign did the dog receive, no suggestion and no clew as to what his conduct should be. a glance ahead to where the old master was nearing the curve of the trail excited him again. he sprang to his feet with a whine, and then, struck by a new idea, turned his attention to madge. hitherto he had ignored her, but now, both masters failing him, she alone was left. he went over to her and snuggled his head in her lap, nudging her arm with his nose--an old trick of his when begging for favors. he backed away from her and began writhing and twisting playfully, curvetting and prancing, half rearing and striking his fore paws to the earth, struggling with all his body, from the wheedling eyes and flattening ears to the wagging tail, to express the thought that was in him and that was denied him utterance. this, too, he soon abandoned. he was depressed by the coldness of these humans who had never been cold before. no response could he draw from them, no help could he get. they did not consider him. they were as dead. he turned and silently gazed after the old master. skiff miller was rounding the curve. in a moment he would be gone from view. yet he never turned his head, plodding straight onward, slowly and methodically, as though possessed of no interest in what was occurring behind his back. and in this fashion he went out of view. wolf waited for him to reappear. he waited a long minute, silently, quietly, without movement, as though turned to stone--withal stone quick with eagerness and desire. he barked once, and waited. then he turned and trotted back to walt irvine. he sniffed his hand and dropped down heavily at his feet, watching the trail where it curved emptily from view. the tiny stream slipping down the mossy-lipped stone seemed suddenly to increase the volume of its gurgling noise. save for the meadow-larks, there was no other sound. the great yellow butterflies drifted silently through the sunshine and lost themselves in the drowsy shadows. madge gazed triumphantly at her husband. a few minutes later wolf got upon his feet. decision and deliberation marked his movements. he did not glance at the man and woman. his eyes were fixed up the trail. he had made up his mind. they knew it. and they knew, so far as they were concerned, that the ordeal had just begun. he broke into a trot, and madge's lips pursed, forming an avenue for the caressing sound that it was the will of her to send forth. but the caressing sound was not made. she was impelled to look at her husband, and she saw the sternness with which he watched her. the pursed lips relaxed, and she sighed inaudibly. wolf's trot broke into a run. wider and wider were the leaps he made. not once did he turn his head, his wolf's brush standing out straight behind him. he cut sharply across the curve of the trail and was gone. the sun-dog trail sitka charley smoked his pipe and gazed thoughtfully at the _police gazette_ illustration on the wall. for half an hour he had been steadily regarding it, and for half an hour i had been slyly watching him. something was going on in that mind of his, and, whatever it was, i knew it was well worth knowing. he had lived life, and seen things, and performed that prodigy of prodigies, namely, the turning of his back upon his own people, and, in so far as it was possible for an indian, becoming a white man even in his mental processes. as he phrased it himself, he had come into the warm, sat among us, by our fires, and become one of us. he had never learned to read nor write, but his vocabulary was remarkable, and more remarkable still was the completeness with which he had assumed the white man's point of view, the white man's attitude toward things. we had struck this deserted cabin after a hard day on trail. the dogs had been fed, the supper dishes washed, the beds made, and we were now enjoying that most delicious hour that comes each day, and but once each day, on the alaskan trail, the hour when nothing intervenes between the tired body and bed save the smoking of the evening pipe. some former denizen of the cabin had decorated its walls with illustrations torn from magazines and newspapers, and it was these illustrations that had held sitka charley's attention from the moment of our arrival two hours before. he had studied them intently, ranging from one to another and back again, and i could see that there was uncertainty in his mind, and bepuzzlement. "well?" i finally broke the silence. he took the pipe from his mouth and said simply, "i do not understand." he smoked on again, and again removed the pipe, using it to point at the _police gazette_ illustration. "that picture--what does it mean? i do not understand." i looked at the picture. a man, with a preposterously wicked face, his right hand pressed dramatically to his heart, was falling backward to the floor. confronting him, with a face that was a composite of destroying angel and adonis, was a man holding a smoking revolver. "one man is killing the other man," i said, aware of a distinct bepuzzlement of my own and of failure to explain. "why?" asked sitka charley. "i do not know," i confessed. "that picture is all end," he said. "it has no beginning." "it is life," i said. "life has beginning," he objected. i was silenced for the moment, while his eyes wandered on to an adjoining decoration, a photographic reproduction of somebody's "leda and the swan." "that picture," he said, "has no beginning. it has no end. i do not understand pictures." "look at that picture," i commanded, pointing to a third decoration. "it means something. tell me what it means to you." he studied it for several minutes. "the little girl is sick," he said finally. "that is the doctor looking at her. they have been up all night--see, the oil is low in the lamp, the first morning light is coming in at the window. it is a great sickness; maybe she will die, that is why the doctor looks so hard. that is the mother. it is a great sickness, because the mother's head is on the table and she is crying." "how do you know she is crying?" i interrupted. "you cannot see her face. perhaps she is asleep." sitka charley looked at me in swift surprise, then back at the picture. it was evident that he had not reasoned the impression. "perhaps she is asleep," he repeated. he studied it closely. "no, she is not asleep. the shoulders show that she is not asleep. i have seen the shoulders of a woman who cried. the mother is crying. it is a very great sickness." "and now you understand the picture," i cried. he shook his head, and asked, "the little girl--does it die?" it was my turn for silence. "does it die?" he reiterated. "you are a painter-man. maybe you know." "no, i do not know," i confessed. "it is not life," he delivered himself dogmatically. "in life little girl die or get well. something happen in life. in picture nothing happen. no, i do not understand pictures." his disappointment was patent. it was his desire to understand all things that white men understand, and here, in this matter, he failed. i felt, also, that there was challenge in his attitude. he was bent upon compelling me to show him the wisdom of pictures. besides, he had remarkable powers of visualization. i had long since learned this. he visualized everything. he saw life in pictures, felt life in pictures, generalized life in pictures; and yet he did not understand pictures when seen through other men's eyes and expressed by those men with color and line upon canvas. "pictures are bits of life," i said. "we paint life as we see it. for instance, charley, you are coming along the trail. it is night. you see a cabin. the window is lighted. you look through the window for one second, or for two seconds, you see something, and you go on your way. you saw maybe a man writing a letter. you saw something without beginning or end. nothing happened. yet it was a bit of life you saw. you remember it afterward. it is like a picture in your memory. the window is the frame of the picture." i could see that he was interested, and i knew that as i spoke he had looked through the window and seen the man writing the letter. "there is a picture you have painted that i understand," he said. "it is a true picture. it has much meaning. it is in your cabin at dawson. it is a faro table. there are men playing. it is a large game. the limit is off." "how do you know the limit is off?" i broke in excitedly, for here was where my work could be tried out on an unbiassed judge who knew life only, and not art, and who was a sheer master of reality. also, i was very proud of that particular piece of work. i had named it "the last turn," and i believed it to be one of the best things i had ever done. "there are no chips on the table," sitka charley explained. "the men are playing with markers. that means the roof is the limit. one man play yellow markers--maybe one yellow marker worth one thousand dollars, maybe two thousand dollars. one man play red markers. maybe they are worth five hundred dollars, maybe one thousand dollars. it is a very big game. everybody play very high, up to the roof. how do i know? you make the dealer with blood little bit warm in face." (i was delighted.) "the lookout, you make him lean forward in his chair. why he lean forward? why his face very much quiet? why his eyes very much bright? why dealer warm with blood a little bit in the face? why all men very quiet?--the man with yellow markers? the man with white markers? the man with red markers? why nobody talk? because very much money. because last turn." "how do you know it is the last turn?" i asked. "the king is coppered, the seven is played open," he answered. "nobody bet on other cards. other cards all gone. everybody one mind. everybody play king to lose, seven to win. maybe bank lose twenty thousand dollars, maybe bank win. yes, that picture i understand." "yet you do not know the end!" i cried triumphantly. "it is the last turn, but the cards are not yet turned. in the picture they will never be turned. nobody will ever know who wins nor who loses." "and the men will sit there and never talk," he said, wonder and awe growing in his face. "and the lookout will lean forward, and the blood will be warm in the face of the dealer. it is a strange thing. always will they sit there, always; and the cards will never be turned." "it is a picture," i said. "it is life. you have seen things like it yourself." he looked at me and pondered, then said, very slowly: "no, as you say, there is no end to it. nobody will ever know the end. yet is it a true thing. i have seen it. it is life." for a long time he smoked on in silence, weighing the pictorial wisdom of the white man and verifying it by the facts of life. he nodded his head several times, and grunted once or twice. then he knocked the ashes from his pipe, carefully refilled it, and after a thoughtful pause, lighted it again. "then have i, too, seen many pictures of life," he began; "pictures not painted, but seen with the eyes. i have looked at them like through the window at the man writing the letter. i have seen many pieces of life, without beginning, without end, without understanding." with a sudden change of position he turned his eyes full upon me and regarded me thoughtfully. "look you," he said; "you are a painter-man. how would you paint this which i saw, a picture without beginning, the ending of which i do not understand, a piece of life with the northern lights for a candle and alaska for a frame." "it is a large canvas," i murmured. but he ignored me, for the picture he had in mind was before his eyes and he was seeing it. "there are many names for this picture," he said. "but in the picture there are many sun-dogs, and it comes into my mind to call it 'the sun- dog trail.' it was a long time ago, seven years ago, the fall of ' , when i saw the woman first time. at lake linderman i had one canoe, very good peterborough canoe. i came over chilcoot pass with two thousand letters for dawson. i was letter carrier. everybody rush to klondike at that time. many people on trail. many people chop down trees and make boats. last water, snow in the air, snow on the ground, ice on the lake, on the river ice in the eddies. every day more snow, more ice. maybe one day, maybe three days, maybe six days, any day maybe freeze-up come, then no more water, all ice, everybody walk, dawson six hundred miles, long time walk. boat go very quick. everybody want to go boat. everybody say, 'charley, two hundred dollars you take me in canoe,' 'charley, three hundred dollars,' 'charley, four hundred dollars.' i say no, all the time i say no. i am letter carrier. "in morning i get to lake linderman. i walk all night and am much tired. i cook breakfast, i eat, then i sleep on the beach three hours. i wake up. it is ten o'clock. snow is falling. there is wind, much wind that blows fair. also, there is a woman who sits in the snow alongside. she is white woman, she is young, very pretty, maybe she is twenty years old, maybe twenty-five years old. she look at me. i look at her. she is very tired. she is no dance-woman. i see that right away. she is good woman, and she is very tired. "'you are sitka charley,' she says. i get up quick and roll blankets so snow does not get inside. 'i go to dawson,' she says. 'i go in your canoe--how much?' "i do not want anybody in my canoe. i do not like to say no. so i say, 'one thousand dollars.' just for fun i say it, so woman cannot come with me, much better than say no. she look at me very hard, then she says, 'when you start?' i say right away. then she says all right, she will give me one thousand dollars. "what can i say? i do not want the woman, yet have i given my word that for one thousand dollars she can come. i am surprised. maybe she make fun, too, so i say, 'let me see thousand dollars.' and that woman, that young woman, all alone on the trail, there in the snow, she take out one thousand dollars, in greenbacks, and she put them in my hand. i look at money, i look at her. what can i say? i say, 'no, my canoe very small. there is no room for outfit.' she laugh. she says, 'i am great traveller. this is my outfit.' she kick one small pack in the snow. it is two fur robes, canvas outside, some woman's clothes inside. i pick it up. maybe thirty-five pounds. i am surprised. she take it away from me. she says, 'come, let us start.' she carries pack into canoe. what can i say? i put my blankets into canoe. we start. "and that is the way i saw the woman first time. the wind was fair. i put up small sail. the canoe went very fast, it flew like a bird over the high waves. the woman was much afraid. 'what for you come klondike much afraid?' i ask. she laugh at me, a hard laugh, but she is still much afraid. also is she very tired. i run canoe through rapids to lake bennett. water very bad, and woman cry out because she is afraid. we go down lake bennett, snow, ice, wind like a gale, but woman is very tired and go to sleep. "that night we make camp at windy arm. woman sit by fire and eat supper. i look at her. she is pretty. she fix hair. there is much hair, and it is brown, also sometimes it is like gold in the firelight, when she turn her head, so, and flashes come from it like golden fire. the eyes are large and brown, sometimes warm like a candle behind a curtain, sometimes very hard and bright like broken ice when sun shines upon it. when she smile--how can i say?--when she smile i know white man like to kiss her, just like that, when she smile. she never do hard work. her hands are soft, like baby's hand. she is soft all over, like baby. she is not thin, but round like baby; her arm, her leg, her muscles, all soft and round like baby. her waist is small, and when she stand up, when she walk, or move her head or arm, it is--i do not know the word--but it is nice to look at, like--maybe i say she is built on lines like the lines of a good canoe, just like that, and when she move she is like the movement of the good canoe sliding through still water or leaping through water when it is white and fast and angry. it is very good to see. "why does she come into klondike, all alone, with plenty of money? i do not know. next day i ask her. she laugh and says: 'sitka charley, that is none of your business. i give you one thousand dollars take me to dawson. that only is your business.' next day after that i ask her what is her name. she laugh, then she says, 'mary jones, that is my name.' i do not know her name, but i know all the time that mary jones is not her name. "it is very cold in canoe, and because of cold sometimes she not feel good. sometimes she feel good and she sing. her voice is like a silver bell, and i feel good all over like when i go into church at holy cross mission, and when she sing i feel strong and paddle like hell. then she laugh and says, 'you think we get to dawson before freeze-up, charley?' sometimes she sit in canoe and is thinking far away, her eyes like that, all empty. she does not see sitka charley, nor the ice, nor the snow. she is far away. very often she is like that, thinking far away. sometimes, when she is thinking far away, her face is not good to see. it looks like a face that is angry, like the face of one man when he want to kill another man. "last day to dawson very bad. shore-ice in all the eddies, mush-ice in the stream. i cannot paddle. the canoe freeze to ice. i cannot get to shore. there is much danger. all the time we go down yukon in the ice. that night there is much noise of ice. then ice stop, canoe stop, everything stop. 'let us go to shore,' the woman says. i say no, better wait. by and by, everything start down-stream again. there is much snow. i cannot see. at eleven o'clock at night, everything stop. at one o'clock everything start again. at three o'clock everything stop. canoe is smashed like eggshell, but is on top of ice and cannot sink. i hear dogs howling. we wait. we sleep. by and by morning come. there is no more snow. it is the freeze-up, and there is dawson. canoe smash and stop right at dawson. sitka charley has come in with two thousand letters on very last water. "the woman rent a cabin on the hill, and for one week i see her no more. then, one day, she come to me. 'charley,' she says, 'how do you like to work for me? you drive dogs, make camp, travel with me.' i say that i make too much money carrying letters. she says, 'charley, i will pay you more money.' i tell her that pick-and-shovel man get fifteen dollars a day in the mines. she says, 'that is four hundred and fifty dollars a month.' and i say, 'sitka charley is no pick-and-shovel man.' then she says, 'i understand, charley. i will give you seven hundred and fifty dollars each month.' it is a good price, and i go to work for her. i buy for her dogs and sled. we travel up klondike, up bonanza and eldorado, over to indian river, to sulphur creek, to dominion, back across divide to gold bottom and to too much gold, and back to dawson. all the time she look for something, i do not know what. i am puzzled. 'what thing you look for?' i ask. she laugh. 'you look for gold?' i ask. she laugh. then she says, 'that is none of your business, charley.' and after that i never ask any more. "she has a small revolver which she carries in her belt. sometimes, on trail, she makes practice with revolver. i laugh. 'what for you laugh, charley?' she ask. 'what for you play with that?' i say. 'it is no good. it is too small. it is for a child, a little plaything.' when we get back to dawson she ask me to buy good revolver for her. i buy a colt's . it is very heavy, but she carry it in her belt all the time. "at dawson comes the man. which way he come i do not know. only do i know he is _checha-quo_--what you call tenderfoot. his hands are soft, just like hers. he never do hard work. he is soft all over. at first i think maybe he is her husband. but he is too young. also, they make two beds at night. he is maybe twenty years old. his eyes blue, his hair yellow, he has a little mustache which is yellow. his name is john jones. maybe he is her brother. i do not know. i ask questions no more. only i think his name not john jones. other people call him mr. girvan. i do not think that is his name. i do not think her name is miss girvan, which other people call her. i think nobody know their names. "one night i am asleep at dawson. he wake me up. he says, 'get the dogs ready; we start.' no more do i ask questions, so i get the dogs ready and we start. we go down the yukon. it is night-time, it is november, and it is very cold--sixty-five below. she is soft. he is soft. the cold bites. they get tired. they cry under their breaths to themselves. by and by i say better we stop and make camp. but they say that they will go on. three times i say better to make camp and rest, but each time they say they will go on. after that i say nothing. all the time, day after day, is it that way. they are very soft. they get stiff and sore. they do not understand moccasins, and their feet hurt very much. they limp, they stagger like drunken people, they cry under their breaths; and all the time they say, 'on! on! we will go on!' "they are like crazy people. all the time do they go on, and on. why do they go on? i do not know. only do they go on. what are they after? i do not know. they are not after gold. there is no stampede. besides, they spend plenty of money. but i ask questions no more. i, too, go on and on, because i am strong on the trail and because i am greatly paid. "we make circle city. that for which they look is not there. i think now that we will rest, and rest the dogs. but we do not rest, not for one day do we rest. 'come,' says the woman to the man, 'let us go on.' and we go on. we leave the yukon. we cross the divide to the west and swing down into the tanana country. there are new diggings there. but that for which they look is not there, and we take the back trail to circle city. "it is a hard journey. december is most gone. the days are short. it is very cold. one morning it is seventy below zero. 'better that we don't travel to-day,' i say, 'else will the frost be unwarmed in the breathing and bite all the edges of our lungs. after that we will have bad cough, and maybe next spring will come pneumonia.' but they are _checha-quo_. they do not understand the trail. they are like dead people they are so tired, but they say, 'let us go on.' we go on. the frost bites their lungs, and they get the dry cough. they cough till the tears run down their cheeks. when bacon is frying they must run away from the fire and cough half an hour in the snow. they freeze their cheeks a little bit, so that the skin turns black and is very sore. also, the man freezes his thumb till the end is like to come off, and he must wear a large thumb on his mitten to keep it warm. and sometimes, when the frost bites hard and the thumb is very cold, he must take off the mitten and put the hand between his legs next to the skin, so that the thumb may get warm again. "we limp into circle city, and even i, sitka charley, am tired. it is christmas eve. i dance, drink, make a good time, for to-morrow is christmas day and we will rest. but no. it is five o'clock in the morning--christmas morning. i am two hours asleep. the man stand by my bed. 'come, charley,' he says, 'harness the dogs. we start.' "have i not said that i ask questions no more? they pay me seven hundred and fifty dollars each month. they are my masters. i am their man. if they say, 'charley, come, let us start for hell,' i will harness the dogs, and snap the whip, and start for hell. so i harness the dogs, and we start down the yukon. where do we go? they do not say. only do they say, 'on! on! we will go on!' "they are very weary. they have travelled many hundreds of miles, and they do not understand the way of the trail. besides, their cough is very bad--the dry cough that makes strong men swear and weak men cry. but they go on. every day they go on. never do they rest the dogs. always do they buy new dogs. at every camp, at every post, at every indian village, do they cut out the tired dogs and put in fresh dogs. they have much money, money without end, and like water they spend it. they are crazy? sometimes i think so, for there is a devil in them that drives them on and on, always on. what is it that they try to find? it is not gold. never do they dig in the ground. i think a long time. then i think it is a man they try to find. but what man? never do we see the man. yet are they like wolves on the trail of the kill. but they are funny wolves, soft wolves, baby wolves who do not understand the way of the trail. they cry aloud in their sleep at night. in their sleep they moan and groan with the pain of their weariness. and in the day, as they stagger along the trail, they cry under their breaths. they are funny wolves. "we pass fort yukon. we pass fort hamilton. we pass minook. january has come and nearly gone. the days are very short. at nine o'clock comes daylight. at three o'clock comes night. and it is cold. and even i, sitka charley, am tired. will we go on forever this way without end? i do not know. but always do i look along the trail for that which they try to find. there are few people on the trail. sometimes we travel one hundred miles and never see a sign of life. it is very quiet. there is no sound. sometimes it snows, and we are like wandering ghosts. sometimes it is clear, and at midday the sun looks at us for a moment over the hills to the south. the northern lights flame in the sky, and the sun-dogs dance, and the air is filled with frost-dust. "i am sitka charley, a strong man. i was born on the trail, and all my days have i lived on the trail. and yet have these two baby wolves made me very tired. i am lean, like a starved cat, and i am glad of my bed at night, and in the morning am i greatly weary. yet ever are we hitting the trail in the dark before daylight, and still on the trail does the dark after nightfall find us. these two baby wolves! if i am lean like a starved cat, they are lean like cats that have never eaten and have died. their eyes are sunk deep in their heads, bright sometimes as with fever, dim and cloudy sometimes like the eyes of the dead. their cheeks are hollow like caves in a cliff. also are their cheeks black and raw from many freezings. sometimes it is the woman in the morning who says, 'i cannot get up. i cannot move. let me die.' and it is the man who stands beside her and says, 'come, let us go on.' and they go on. and sometimes it is the man who cannot get up, and the woman says, 'come, let us go on.' but the one thing they do, and always do, is to go on. always do they go on. "sometimes, at the trading posts, the man and woman get letters. i do not know what is in the letters. but it is the scent that they follow, these letters themselves are the scent. one time an indian gives them a letter. i talk with him privately. he says it is a man with one eye who gives him the letter, a man who travels fast down the yukon. that is all. but i know that the baby wolves are after the man with the one eye. "it is february, and we have travelled fifteen hundred miles. we are getting near bering sea, and there are storms and blizzards. the going is hard. we come to anvig. i do not know, but i think sure they get a letter at anvig, for they are much excited, and they say, 'come, hurry, let us go on.' but i say we must buy grub, and they say we must travel light and fast. also, they say that we can get grub at charley mckeon's cabin. then do i know that they take the big cut-off, for it is there that charley mckeon lives where the black rock stands by the trail. "before we start, i talk maybe two minutes with the priest at anvig. yes, there is a man with one eye who has gone by and who travels fast. and i know that for which they look is the man with the one eye. we leave anvig with little grub, and travel light and fast. there are three fresh dogs bought in anvig, and we travel very fast. the man and woman are like mad. we start earlier in the morning, we travel later at night. i look sometimes to see them die, these two baby wolves, but they will not die. they go on and on. when the dry cough take hold of them hard, they hold their hands against their stomach and double up in the snow, and cough, and cough, and cough. they cannot walk, they cannot talk. maybe for ten minutes they cough, maybe for half an hour, and then they straighten up, the tears from the coughing frozen on their faces, and the words they say are, 'come, let us go on.' "even i, sitka charley, am greatly weary, and i think seven hundred and fifty dollars is a cheap price for the labor i do. we take the big cut- off, and the trail is fresh. the baby wolves have their noses down to the trail, and they say, 'hurry!' all the time do they say, 'hurry! faster! faster!' it is hard on the dogs. we have not much food and we cannot give them enough to eat, and they grow weak. also, they must work hard. the woman has true sorrow for them, and often, because of them, the tears are in her eyes. but the devil in her that drives her on will not let her stop and rest the dogs. "and then we come upon the man with the one eye. he is in the snow by the trail, and his leg is broken. because of the leg he has made a poor camp, and has been lying on his blankets for three days and keeping a fire going. when we find him he is swearing. he swears like hell. never have i heard a man swear like that man. i am glad. now that they have found that for which they look, we will have rest. but the woman says, 'let us start. hurry!' "i am surprised. but the man with the one eye says, 'never mind me. give me your grub. you will get more grub at mckeon's cabin to-morrow. send mckeon back for me. but do you go on.' here is another wolf, an old wolf, and he, too, thinks but the one thought, to go on. so we give him our grub, which is not much, and we chop wood for his fire, and we take his strongest dogs and go on. we left the man with one eye there in the snow, and he died there in the snow, for mckeon never went back for him. and who that man was, and why he came to be there, i do not know. but i think he was greatly paid by the man and the woman, like me, to do their work for them. "that day and that night we had nothing to eat, and all next day we travelled fast, and we were weak with hunger. then we came to the black rock, which rose five hundred feet above the trail. it was at the end of the day. darkness was coming, and we could not find the cabin of mckeon. we slept hungry, and in the morning looked for the cabin. it was not there, which was a strange thing, for everybody knew that mckeon lived in a cabin at black rock. we were near to the coast, where the wind blows hard and there is much snow. everywhere there were small hills of snow where the wind had piled it up. i have a thought, and i dig in one and another of the hills of snow. soon i find the walls of the cabin, and i dig down to the door. i go inside. mckeon is dead. maybe two or three weeks he is dead. a sickness had come upon him so that he could not leave the cabin. the wind and the snow had covered the cabin. he had eaten his grub and died. i looked for his cache, but there was no grub in it. "'let us go on,' said the woman. her eyes were hungry, and her hand was upon her heart, as with the hurt of something inside. she bent back and forth like a tree in the wind as she stood there. 'yes, let us go on,' said the man. his voice was hollow, like the _klonk_ of an old raven, and he was hunger-mad. his eyes were like live coals of fire, and as his body rocked to and fro, so rocked his soul inside. and i, too, said, 'let us go on.' for that one thought, laid upon me like a lash for every mile of fifteen hundred miles, had burned itself into my soul, and i think that i, too, was mad. besides, we could only go on, for there was no grub. and we went on, giving no thought to the man with the one eye in the snow. "there is little travel on the big cut-off. sometimes two or three months and nobody goes by. the snow had covered the trail, and there was no sign that men had ever come or gone that way. all day the wind blew and the snow fell, and all day we travelled, while our stomachs gnawed their desire and our bodies grew weaker with every step they took. then the woman began to fall. then the man. i did not fall, but my feet were heavy and i caught my toes and stumbled many times. "that night is the end of february. i kill three ptarmigan with the woman's revolver, and we are made somewhat strong again. but the dogs have nothing to eat. they try to eat their harness, which is of leather and walrus-hide, and i must fight them off with a club and hang all the harness in a tree. and all night they howl and fight around that tree. but we do not mind. we sleep like dead people, and in the morning get up like dead people out of their graves and go on along the trail. "that morning is the st of march, and on that morning i see the first sign of that after which the baby wolves are in search. it is clear weather, and cold. the sun stay longer in the sky, and there are sun- dogs flashing on either side, and the air is bright with frost-dust. the snow falls no more upon the trail, and i see the fresh sign of dogs and sled. there is one man with that outfit, and i see in the snow that he is not strong. he, too, has not enough to eat. the young wolves see the fresh sign, too, and they are much excited. 'hurry!' they say. all the time they say, 'hurry! faster, charley, faster!' "we make hurry very slow. all the time the man and the woman fall down. when they try to ride on sled the dogs are too weak, and the dogs fall down. besides, it is so cold that if they ride on the sled they will freeze. it is very easy for a hungry man to freeze. when the woman fall down, the man help her up. sometimes the woman help the man up. by and by both fall down and cannot get up, and i must help them up all the time, else they will not get up and will die there in the snow. this is very hard work, for i am greatly weary, and as well i must drive the dogs, and the man and woman are very heavy with no strength in their bodies. so, by and by, i, too, fall down in the snow, and there is no one to help me up. i must get up by myself. and always do i get up by myself, and help them up, and make the dogs go on. "that night i get one ptarmigan, and we are very hungry. and that night the man says to me, 'what time start to-morrow, charley?' it is like the voice of a ghost. i say, 'all the time you make start at five o'clock.' 'to-morrow,' he says, 'we will start at three o'clock.' i laugh in great bitterness, and i say, 'you are dead man.' and he says, 'to-morrow we will start at three o'clock.' "and we start at three o'clock, for i am their man, and that which they say is to be done, i do. it is clear and cold, and there is no wind. when daylight comes we can see a long way off. and it is very quiet. we can hear no sound but the beat of our hearts, and in the silence that is a very loud sound. we are like sleep-walkers, and we walk in dreams until we fall down; and then we know we must get up, and we see the trail once more and bear the beating of our hearts. sometimes, when i am walking in dreams this way, i have strange thoughts. why does sitka charley live? i ask myself. why does sitka charley work hard, and go hungry, and have all this pain? for seven hundred and fifty dollars a month, i make the answer, and i know it is a foolish answer. also is it a true answer. and after that never again do i care for money. for that day a large wisdom came to me. there was a great light, and i saw clear, and i knew that it was not for money that a man must live, but for a happiness that no man can give, or buy, or sell, and that is beyond all value of all money in the world. "in the morning we come upon the last-night camp of the man who is before us. it is a poor camp, the kind a man makes who is hungry and without strength. on the snow there are pieces of blanket and of canvas, and i know what has happened. his dogs have eaten their harness, and he has made new harness out of his blankets. the man and woman stare hard at what is to be seen, and as i look at them my back feels the chill as of a cold wind against the skin. their eyes are toil-mad and hunger-mad, and burn like fire deep in their heads. their faces are like the faces of people who have died of hunger, and their cheeks are black with the dead flesh of many freezings. 'let us go on,' says the man. but the woman coughs and falls in the snow. it is the dry cough where the frost has bitten the lungs. for a long time she coughs, then like a woman crawling out of her grave she crawls to her feet. the tears are ice upon her cheeks, and her breath makes a noise as it comes and goes, and she says, 'let us go on.' "we go on. and we walk in dreams through the silence. and every time we walk is a dream and we are without pain; and every time we fall down is an awakening, and we see the snow and the mountains and the fresh trail of the man who is before us, and we know all our pain again. we come to where we can see a long way over the snow, and that for which they look is before them. a mile away there are black spots upon the snow. the black spots move. my eyes are dim, and i must stiffen my soul to see. and i see one man with dogs and a sled. the baby wolves see, too. they can no longer talk, but they whisper, 'on, on. let us hurry!' "and they fall down, but they go on. the man who is before us, his blanket harness breaks often, and he must stop and mend it. our harness is good, for i have hung it in trees each night. at eleven o'clock the man is half a mile away. at one o'clock he is a quarter of a mile away. he is very weak. we see him fall down many times in the snow. one of his dogs can no longer travel, and he cuts it out of the harness. but he does not kill it. i kill it with the axe as i go by, as i kill one of my dogs which loses its legs and can travel no more. "now we are three hundred yards away. we go very slow. maybe in two, three hours we go one mile. we do not walk. all the time we fall down. we stand up and stagger two steps, maybe three steps, then we fall down again. and all the time i must help up the man and woman. sometimes they rise to their knees and fall forward, maybe four or five times before they can get to their feet again and stagger two or three steps and fall. but always do they fall forward. standing or kneeling, always do they fall forward, gaining on the trail each time by the length of their bodies. "sometimes they crawl on hands and knees like animals that live in the forest. we go like snails, like snails that are dying we go so slow. and yet we go faster than the man who is before us. for he, too, falls all the time, and there is no sitka charley to lift him up. now he is two hundred yards away. after a long time he is one hundred yards away. "it is a funny sight. i want to laugh out loud, ha! ha! just like that, it is so funny. it is a race of dead men and dead dogs. it is like in a dream when you have a nightmare and run away very fast for your life and go very slow. the man who is with me is mad. the woman is mad. i am mad. all the world is mad, and i want to laugh, it is so funny. "the stranger-man who is before us leaves his dogs behind and goes on alone across the snow. after a long time we come to the dogs. they lie helpless in the snow, their harness of blanket and canvas on them, the sled behind them, and as we pass them they whine to us and cry like babies that are hungry. "then we, too, leave our dogs and go on alone across the snow. the man and the woman are nearly gone, and they moan and groan and sob, but they go on. i, too, go on. i have but one thought. it is to come up to the stranger-man. then it is that i shall rest, and not until then shall i rest, and it seems that i must lie down and sleep for a thousand years, i am so tired. "the stranger-man is fifty yards away, all alone in the white snow. he falls and crawls, staggers, and falls and crawls again. he is like an animal that is sore wounded and trying to run from the hunter. by and by he crawls on hands and knees. he no longer stands up. and the man and woman no longer stand up. they, too, crawl after him on hands and knees. but i stand up. sometimes i fall, but always do i stand up again. "it is a strange thing to see. all about is the snow and the silence, and through it crawl the man and the woman, and the stranger-man who goes before. on either side the sun are sun-dogs, so that there are three suns in the sky. the frost-dust is like the dust of diamonds, and all the air is filled with it. now the woman coughs, and lies still in the snow until the fit has passed, when she crawls on again. now the man looks ahead, and he is blear-eyed as with old age and must rub his eyes so that he can see the stranger-man. and now the stranger-man looks back over his shoulder. and sitka charley, standing upright, maybe falls down and stands upright again. "after a long time the stranger-man crawls no more. he stands slowly upon his feet and rocks back and forth. also does he take off one mitten and wait with revolver in his hand, rocking back and forth as he waits. his face is skin and bones and frozen black. it is a hungry face. the eyes are deep-sunk in his head, and the lips are snarling. the man and woman, too, get upon their feet and they go toward him very slowly. and all about is the snow and the silence. and in the sky are three suns, and all the air is flashing with the dust of diamonds. "and thus it was that i, sitka charley, saw the baby wolves make their kill. no word is spoken. only does the stranger-man snarl with his hungry face. also does he rock to and fro, his shoulders drooping, his knees bent, and his legs wide apart so that he does not fall down. the man and the woman stop maybe fifty feet away. their legs, too, are wide apart so that they do not fall down, and their bodies rock to and fro. the stranger-man is very weak. his arm shakes, so that when he shoots at the man his bullet strikes in the snow. the man cannot take off his mitten. the stranger-man shoots at him again, and this time the bullet goes by in the air. then the man takes the mitten in his teeth and pulls it off. but his hand is frozen and he cannot hold the revolver, and it fails in the snow. i look at the woman. her mitten is off, and the big colt's revolver is in her hand. three times she shoot, quick, just like that. the hungry face of the stranger-man is still snarling as he falls forward into the snow. "they do not look at the dead man. 'let us go on,' they say. and we go on. but now that they have found that for which they look, they are like dead. the last strength has gone out of them. they can stand no more upon their feet. they will not crawl, but desire only to close their eyes and sleep. i see not far away a place for camp. i kick them. i have my dog-whip, and i give them the lash of it. they cry aloud, but they must crawl. and they do crawl to the place for camp. i build fire so that they will not freeze. then i go back for sled. also, i kill the dogs of the stranger-man so that we may have food and not die. i put the man and woman in blankets and they sleep. sometimes i wake them and give them little bit of food. they are not awake, but they take the food. the woman sleep one day and a half. then she wake up and go to sleep again. the man sleep two days and wake up and go to sleep again. after that we go down to the coast at st. michaels. and when the ice goes out of bering sea, the man and woman go away on a steamship. but first they pay me my seven hundred and fifty dollars a month. also, they make me a present of one thousand dollars. and that was the year that sitka charley gave much money to the mission at holy cross." "but why did they kill the man?" i asked. sitka charley delayed reply until he had lighted his pipe. he glanced at the _police gazette_ illustration and nodded his head at it familiarly. then he said, speaking slowly and ponderingly: "i have thought much. i do not know. it is something that happened. it is a picture i remember. it is like looking in at the window and seeing the man writing a letter. they came into my life and they went out of my life, and the picture is as i have said, without beginning, the end without understanding." "you have painted many pictures in the telling," i said. "ay," he nodded his head. "but they were without beginning and without end." "the last picture of all had an end," i said. "ay," he answered. "but what end?" "it was a piece of life," i said. "ay," he answered. "it was a piece of life." negore, the coward he had followed the trail of his fleeing people for eleven days, and his pursuit had been in itself a flight; for behind him he knew full well were the dreaded russians, toiling through the swampy lowlands and over the steep divides, bent on no less than the extermination of all his people. he was travelling light. a rabbit-skin sleeping-robe, a muzzle- loading rifle, and a few pounds of sun-dried salmon constituted his outfit. he would have marvelled that a whole people--women and children and aged--could travel so swiftly, had he not known the terror that drove them on. it was in the old days of the russian occupancy of alaska, when the nineteenth century had run but half its course, that negore fled after his fleeing tribe and came upon it this summer night by the head waters of the pee-lat. though near the midnight hour, it was bright day as he passed through the weary camp. many saw him, all knew him, but few and cold were the greetings he received. "negore, the coward," he heard illiha, a young woman, laugh, and sun-ne, his sister's daughter, laughed with her. black anger ate at his heart; but he gave no sign, threading his way among the camp-fires until he came to one where sat an old man. a young woman was kneading with skilful fingers the tired muscles of his legs. he raised a sightless face and listened intently as negore's foot crackled a dead twig. "who comes?" he queried in a thin, tremulous voice. "negore," said the young woman, scarcely looking up from her task. negore's face was expressionless. for many minutes he stood and waited. the old man's head had sunk back upon his chest. the young woman pressed and prodded the wasted muscles, resting her body on her knees, her bowed head hidden as in a cloud by her black wealth of hair. negore watched the supple body, bending at the hips as a lynx's body might bend, pliant as a young willow stalk, and, withal, strong as only youth is strong. he looked, and was aware of a great yearning, akin in sensation to physical hunger. at last he spoke, saying: "is there no greeting for negore, who has been long gone and has but now come back?" she looked up at him with cold eyes. the old man chuckled to himself after the manner of the old. "thou art my woman, oona," negore said, his tones dominant and conveying a hint of menace. she arose with catlike ease and suddenness to her full height, her eyes flashing, her nostrils quivering like a deer's. "i was thy woman to be, negore, but thou art a coward; the daughter of old kinoos mates not with a coward!" she silenced him with an imperious gesture as he strove to speak. "old kinoos and i came among you from a strange land. thy people took us in by their fires and made us warm, nor asked whence or why we wandered. it was their thought that old kinoos had lost the sight of his eyes from age; nor did old kinoos say otherwise, nor did i, his daughter. old kinoos is a brave man, but old kinoos was never a boaster. and now, when i tell thee of how his blindness came to be, thou wilt know, beyond question, that the daughter of kinoos cannot mother the children of a coward such as thou art, negore." again she silenced the speech that rushed up to his tongue. "know, negore, if journey be added unto journey of all thy journeyings through this land, thou wouldst not come to the unknown sitka on the great salt sea. in that place there be many russian folk, and their rule is harsh. and from sitka, old kinoos, who was young kinoos in those days, fled away with me, a babe in his arms, along the islands in the midst of the sea. my mother dead tells the tale of his wrong; a russian, dead with a spear through breast and back, tells the tale of the vengeance of kinoos. "but wherever we fled, and however far we fled, always did we find the hated russian folk. kinoos was unafraid, but the sight of them was a hurt to his eyes; so we fled on and on, through the seas and years, till we came to the great fog sea, negore, of which thou hast heard, but which thou hast never seen. we lived among many peoples, and i grew to be a woman; but kinoos, growing old, took to him no other woman, nor did i take a man. "at last we came to pastolik, which is where the yukon drowns itself in the great fog sea. here we lived long, on the rim of the sea, among a people by whom the russians were well hated. but sometimes they came, these russians, in great ships, and made the people of pastolik show them the way through the islands uncountable of the many-mouthed yukon. and sometimes the men they took to show them the way never came back, till the people became angry and planned a great plan. "so, when there came a ship, old kinoos stepped forward and said he would show the way. he was an old man then, and his hair was white; but he was unafraid. and he was cunning, for he took the ship to where the sea sucks in to the land and the waves beat white on the mountain called romanoff. the sea sucked the ship in to where the waves beat white, and it ground upon the rocks and broke open its sides. then came all the people of pastolik, (for this was the plan), with their war-spears, and arrows, and some few guns. but first the russians put out the eyes of old kinoos that he might never show the way again, and then they fought, where the waves beat white, with the people of pastolik. "now the head-man of these russians was ivan. he it was, with his two thumbs, who drove out the eyes of kinoos. he it was who fought his way through the white water, with two men left of all his men, and went away along the rim of the great fog sea into the north. kinoos was wise. he could see no more and was helpless as a child. so he fled away from the sea, up the great, strange yukon, even to nulato, and i fled with him. "this was the deed my father did, kinoos, an old man. but how did the young man, negore?" once again she silenced him. "with my own eyes i saw, at nulato, before the gates of the great fort, and but few days gone. i saw the russian, ivan, who thrust out my father's eyes, lay the lash of his dog-whip upon thee and beat thee like a dog. this i saw, and knew thee for a coward. but i saw thee not, that night, when all thy people--yea, even the boys not yet hunters--fell upon the russians and slew them all." "not ivan," said negore, quietly. "even now is he on our heels, and with him many russians fresh up from the sea." oona made no effort to hide her surprise and chagrin that ivan was not dead, but went on: "in the day i saw thee a coward; in the night, when all men fought, even the boys not yet hunters, i saw thee not and knew thee doubly a coward." "thou art done? all done?" negore asked. she nodded her head and looked at him askance, as though astonished that he should have aught to say. "know then that negore is no coward," he said; and his speech was very low and quiet. "know that when i was yet a boy i journeyed alone down to the place where the yukon drowns itself in the great fog sea. even to pastolik i journeyed, and even beyond, into the north, along the rim of the sea. this i did when i was a boy, and i was no coward. nor was i coward when i journeyed, a young man and alone, up the yukon farther than man had ever been, so far that i came to another folk, with white faces, who live in a great fort and talk speech other than that the russians talk. also have i killed the great bear of the tanana country, where no one of my people hath ever been. and i have fought with the nuklukyets, and the kaltags, and the sticks in far regions, even i, and alone. these deeds, whereof no man knows, i speak for myself. let my people speak for me of things i have done which they know. they will not say negore is a coward." he finished proudly, and proudly waited. "these be things which happened before i came into the land," she said, "and i know not of them. only do i know what i know, and i know i saw thee lashed like a dog in the day; and in the night, when the great fort flamed red and the men killed and were killed, i saw thee not. also, thy people do call thee negore, the coward. it is thy name now, negore, the coward." "it is not a good name," old kinoos chuckled. "thou dost not understand, kinoos," negore said gently. "but i shall make thee understand. know that i was away on the hunt of the bear, with kamo-tah, my mother's son. and kamo-tah fought with a great bear. we had no meat for three days, and kamo-tah was not strong of arm nor swift of foot. and the great bear crushed him, so, till his bones cracked like dry sticks. thus i found him, very sick and groaning upon the ground. and there was no meat, nor could i kill aught that the sick man might eat. "so i said, 'i will go to nulato and bring thee food, also strong men to carry thee to camp.' and kamo-tah said, 'go thou to nulato and get food, but say no word of what has befallen me. and when i have eaten, and am grown well and strong, i will kill this bear. then will i return in honor to nulato, and no man may laugh and say kamo-tah was undone by a bear.' "so i gave heed to my brother's words; and when i was come to nulato, and the russian, ivan, laid the lash of his dog-whip upon me, i knew i must not fight. for no man knew of kamo-tah, sick and groaning and hungry; and did i fight with ivan, and die, then would my brother die, too. so it was, oona, that thou sawest me beaten like a dog. "then i heard the talk of the shamans and chiefs that the russians had brought strange sicknesses upon the people, and killed our men, and stolen our women, and that the land must be made clean. as i say, i heard the talk, and i knew it for good talk, and i knew that in the night the russians were to be killed. but there was my brother, kamo-tah, sick and groaning and with no meat; so i could not stay and fight with the men and the boys not yet hunters. "and i took with me meat and fish, and the lash-marks of ivan, and i found kamo-tah no longer groaning, but dead. then i went back to nulato, and, behold, there was no nulato--only ashes where the great fort had stood, and the bodies of many men. and i saw the russians come up the yukon in boats, fresh from the sea, many russians; and i saw ivan creep forth from where he lay hid and make talk with them. and the next day i saw ivan lead them upon the trail of the tribe. even now are they upon the trail, and i am here, negore, but no coward." "this is a tale i hear," said oona, though her voice was gentler than before. "kamo-tah is dead and cannot speak for thee, and i know only what i know, and i must know thee of my own eyes for no coward." negore made an impatient gesture. "there be ways and ways," she added. "art thou willing to do no less than what old kinoos hath done?" he nodded his head, and waited. "as thou hast said, they seek for us even now, these russians. show them the way, negore, even as old kinoos showed them the way, so that they come, unprepared, to where we wait for them, in a passage up the rocks. thou knowest the place, where the wall is broken and high. then will we destroy them, even ivan. when they cling like flies to the wall, and top is no less near than bottom, our men shall fall upon them from above and either side, with spears, and arrows, and guns. and the women and children, from above, shall loosen the great rocks and hurl them down upon them. it will be a great day, for the russians will be killed, the land will be made clean, and ivan, even ivan who thrust out my father's eyes and laid the lash of his dog-whip upon thee, will be killed. like a dog gone mad will he die, his breath crushed out of him beneath the rocks. and when the fighting begins, it is for thee, negore, to crawl secretly away so that thou be not slain." "even so," he answered. "negore will show them the way. and then?" "and then i shall be thy woman, negore's woman, the brave man's woman. and thou shalt hunt meat for me and old kinoos, and i shall cook thy food, and sew thee warm parkas and strong, and make thee moccasins after the way of my people, which is a better way than thy people's way. and as i say, i shall be thy woman, negore, always thy woman. and i shall make thy life glad for thee, so that all thy days will be a song and laughter, and thou wilt know the woman oona as unlike all other women, for she has journeyed far, and lived in strange places, and is wise in the ways of men and in the ways they may be made glad. and in thine old age will she still make thee glad, and thy memory of her in the days of thy strength will be sweet, for thou wilt know always that she was ease to thee, and peace, and rest, and that beyond all women to other men has she been woman to thee." "even so," said negore, and the hunger for her ate at his heart, and his arms went out for her as a hungry man's arms might go out for food. "when thou hast shown the way, negore," she chided him; but her eyes were soft, and warm, and he knew she looked upon him as woman had never looked before. "it is well," he said, turning resolutely on his heel. "i go now to make talk with the chiefs, so that they may know i am gone to show the russians the way." "oh, negore, my man! my man!" she said to herself, as she watched him go, but she said it so softly that even old kinoos did not hear, and his ears were over keen, what of his blindness. * * * * * three days later, having with craft ill-concealed his hiding-place, negore was dragged forth like a rat and brought before ivan--"ivan the terrible" he was known by the men who marched at his back. negore was armed with a miserable bone-barbed spear, and he kept his rabbit-skin robe wrapped closely about him, and though the day was warm he shivered as with an ague. he shook his head that he did not understand the speech ivan put at him, and made that he was very weary and sick, and wished only to sit down and rest, pointing the while to his stomach in sign of his sickness, and shivering fiercely. but ivan had with him a man from pastolik who talked the speech of negore, and many and vain were the questions they asked him concerning his tribe, till the man from pastolik, who was called karduk, said: "it is the word of ivan that thou shalt be lashed till thou diest if thou dost not speak. and know, strange brother, when i tell thee the word of ivan is the law, that i am thy friend and no friend of ivan. for i come not willingly from my country by the sea, and i desire greatly to live; wherefore i obey the will of my master--as thou wilt obey, strange brother, if thou art wise, and wouldst live." "nay, strange brother," negore answered, "i know not the way my people are gone, for i was sick, and they fled so fast my legs gave out from under me, and i fell behind." negore waited while karduk talked with ivan. then negore saw the russian's face go dark, and he saw the men step to either side of him, snapping the lashes of their whips. whereupon he betrayed a great fright, and cried aloud that he was a sick man and knew nothing, but would tell what he knew. and to such purpose did he tell, that ivan gave the word to his men to march, and on either side of negore marched the men with the whips, that he might not run away. and when he made that he was weak of his sickness, and stumbled and walked not so fast as they walked, they laid their lashes upon him till he screamed with pain and discovered new strength. and when karduk told him all would he well with him when they had overtaken his tribe, he asked, "and then may i rest and move not?" continually he asked, "and then may i rest and move not?" and while he appeared very sick and looked about him with dull eyes, he noted the fighting strength of ivan's men, and noted with satisfaction that ivan did not recognize him as the man he had beaten before the gates of the fort. it was a strange following his dull eyes saw. there were slavonian hunters, fair-skinned and mighty-muscled; short, squat finns, with flat noses and round faces; siberian half-breeds, whose noses were more like eagle-beaks; and lean, slant-eyed men, who bore in their veins the mongol and tartar blood as well as the blood of the slav. wild adventurers they were, forayers and destroyers from the far lands beyond the sea of bering, who blasted the new and unknown world with fire and sword and clutched greedily for its wealth of fur and hide. negore looked upon them with satisfaction, and in his mind's eye he saw them crushed and lifeless at the passage up the rocks. and ever he saw, waiting for him at the passage up the rocks, the face and the form of oona, and ever he heard her voice in his ears and felt the soft, warm glow of her eyes. but never did he forget to shiver, nor to stumble where the footing was rough, nor to cry aloud at the bite of the lash. also, he was afraid of karduk, for he knew him for no true man. his was a false eye, and an easy tongue--a tongue too easy, he judged, for the awkwardness of honest speech. all that day they marched. and on the next, when karduk asked him at command of ivan, he said he doubted they would meet with his tribe till the morrow. but ivan, who had once been shown the way by old kinoos, and had found that way to lead through the white water and a deadly fight, believed no more in anything. so when they came to a passage up the rocks, he halted his forty men, and through karduk demanded if the way were clear. negore looked at it shortly and carelessly. it was a vast slide that broke the straight wall of a cliff, and was overrun with brush and creeping plants, where a score of tribes could have lain well hidden. he shook his head. "nay, there be nothing there," he said. "the way is clear." again ivan spoke to karduk, and karduk said: "know, strange brother, if thy talk be not straight, and if thy people block the way and fall upon ivan and his men, that thou shalt die, and at once." "my talk is straight," negore said. "the way is clear." still ivan doubted, and ordered two of his slavonian hunters to go up alone. two other men he ordered to the side of negore. they placed their guns against his breast and waited. all waited. and negore knew, should one arrow fly, or one spear be flung, that his death would come upon him. the two slavonian hunters toiled upward till they grew small and smaller, and when they reached the top and waved their hats that all was well, they were like black specks against the sky. the guns were lowered from negore's breast and ivan gave the order for his men to go forward. ivan was silent, lost in thought. for an hour he marched, as though puzzled, and then, through karduk's mouth, he said to negore: "how didst thou know the way was clear when thou didst look so briefly upon it?" negore thought of the little birds he had seen perched among the rocks and upon the bushes, and smiled, it was so simple; but he shrugged his shoulders and made no answer. for he was thinking, likewise, of another passage up the rocks, to which they would soon come, and where the little birds would all be gone. and he was glad that karduk came from the great fog sea, where there were no trees or bushes, and where men learned water- craft instead of land-craft and wood-craft. three hours later, when the sun rode overhead, they came to another passage up the rocks, and karduk said: "look with all thine eyes, strange brother, and see if the way be clear, for ivan is not minded this time to wait while men go up before." negore looked, and he looked with two men by his side, their guns resting against his breast. he saw that the little birds were all gone, and once he saw the glint of sunlight on a rifle-barrel. and he thought of oona, and of her words: "and when the fighting begins, it is for thee, negore, to crawl secretly away so that thou be not slain." he felt the two guns pressing on his breast. this was not the way she had planned. there would be no crawling secretly away. he would be the first to die when the fighting began. but he said, and his voice was steady, and he still feigned to see with dull eyes and to shiver from his sickness: "the way is clear." and they started up, ivan and his forty men from the far lands beyond the sea of bering. and there was karduk, the man from pastolik, and negore, with the two guns always upon him. it was a long climb, and they could not go fast; but very fast to negore they seemed to approach the midway point where top was no less near than bottom. a gun cracked among the rocks to the right, and negore heard the war-yell of all his tribe, and for an instant saw the rocks and bushes bristle alive with his kinfolk. then he felt torn asunder by a burst of flame hot through his being, and as he fell he knew the sharp pangs of life as it wrenches at the flesh to be free. but he gripped his life with a miser's clutch and would not let it go. he still breathed the air, which bit his lungs with a painful sweetness; and dimly he saw and heard, with passing spells of blindness and deafness, the flashes of sight and sound again wherein he saw the hunters of ivan falling to their deaths, and his own brothers fringing the carnage and filling the air with the tumult of their cries and weapons, and, far above, the women and children loosing the great rocks that leaped like things alive and thundered down. the sun danced above him in the sky, the huge walls reeled and swung, and still he heard and saw dimly. and when the great ivan fell across his legs, hurled there lifeless and crushed by a down-rushing rock, he remembered the blind eyes of old kinoos and was glad. then the sounds died down, and the rocks no longer thundered past, and he saw his tribespeople creeping close and closer, spearing the wounded as they came. and near to him he heard the scuffle of a mighty slavonian hunter, loath to die, and, half uprisen, borne back and down by the thirsty spears. then he saw above him the face of oona, and felt about him the arms of oona; and for a moment the sun steadied and stood still, and the great walls were upright and moved not. "thou art a brave man, negore," he heard her say in his ear; "thou art my man, negore." and in that moment he lived all the life of gladness of which she had told him, and the laughter and the song, and as the sun went out of the sky above him, as in his old age, he knew the memory of her was sweet. and as even the memories dimmed and died in the darkness that fell upon him, he knew in her arms the fulfilment of all the ease and rest she had promised him. and as black night wrapped around him, his head upon her breast, he felt a great peace steal about him, and he was aware of the hush of many twilights and the mystery of silence. proofreading team [illustration: "'what is this anyway? a george cohan comedy?'"] personality plus some experiences of emma mcchesney and her son, jock by edna ferber author of "dawn o'hara," "buttered side down," "roast beef, medium," etc. _with fifteen illustrations by james montgomery flagg_ new york frederick a. stokes company contents chapter i. making good with mother ii. personality plus iii. dictated but not read iv. the man within him v. the self-starter illustrations "'what is this anyway? a george cohan comedy?'" _frontispiece_ "'you're a jealous blond,' he laughed" "he was the concentrated essence of do-it-now" "'hi! hold that pose!' called von herman" "with a jolt jock realized she had forgotten all about him" "'well, raw-thah!' he drawled" "... became in some miraculous way a little boy again" "jock mcchesney began to carry a yellow walking stick down to work" "'good lord, mother! of course you don't mean it, but--'" "'greetings!'" "she laid one hand very lightly on his arm and looked up into the sullen, angry young face" "he made straight for the main desk with its battalion of clerks" "'let's not waste any time,' he said" "he found his mother on the floor ... surrounded by piles of pajamas, socks, shirts and collars" "'well, you said you wanted somebody to worry about, didn't you?'" personality plus i making good with mother when men began to build cities vertically instead of horizontally there passed from our highways a picturesque figure, and from our language an expressive figure of speech. that oily-tongued, persuasive, soft-stepping stranger in the rusty prince albert and the black string tie who had been wont to haunt our back steps and front offices with his carefully wrapped bundle, retreated in bewildered defeat before the clanging blows of steel on steel that meant the erection of the first twenty-story skyscraper. "as slick," we used to say, "as a lightning-rod agent." of what use his wares on a building whose tower was robed in clouds and which used the chain lightning for a necklace? the fourth avenue antique dealer had another curio to add to his collection of andirons, knockers, snuff boxes and warming pans. but even as this quaint figure vanished there sprang up a new and glittering one to take his place. he stood framed in the great plate-glass window of the very building which had brought about the defeat of his predecessor. a miracle of close shaving his face was, and a marvel of immaculateness his linen. dapper he was, and dressy, albeit inclined to glittering effects and a certain plethory at the back of the neck. back of him stood shining shapes that reflected his glory in enamel, and brass, and glass. his language was floral, but choice; his talk was of gearings and bearings and cylinders and magnetos; his method differed from that of him who went before as the method of a skilled aëronaut differs from that of the man who goes over niagara in a barrel. and as he multiplied and spread over the land we coined a new figure of speech. "smooth!" we chuckled. "as smooth as an automobile salesman." but even as we listened, fascinated by his fluent verbiage there grew within us a certain resentment. familiarity with his glittering wares bred a contempt of them, so that he fell to speaking of them as necessities instead of luxuries. he juggled figures, and thought nothing of four of them in a row. we looked at our five-thousand-dollar salary, so strangely shrunken and thin now, and even as we looked we saw that the method of the unctuous, anxious stranger had become antiquated in its turn. then from his ashes emerged a new being. neither urger nor spellbinder he. the twentieth century was stamped across his brow, and on his lips was ever the word "service." silent, courteous, watchful, alert, he listened, while you talked. his method, in turn, made that of the silk-lined salesman sound like the hoarse hoots of the ballyhoo man at a county fair. blithely he accepted five hundred thousand dollars and gave in return--a promise. and when we would search our soul for a synonym to express all that was low-voiced, and suave, and judicious, and patient, and sure, we began to say, "as alert as an advertising expert." jock mcchesney, looking as fresh and clear-eyed as only twenty-one and a cold shower can make one look, stood in the doorway of his mother's bedroom. his toilette had halted abruptly at the bathrobe stage. one of those bulky garments swathed his slim figure, while over his left arm hung a gray tweed norfolk coat. from his right hand dangled a pair of trousers, in pattern a modish black-and-white. jock regarded the gray garment on his arm with moody eyes. "well, i'd like to know what's the matter with it!" he demanded, a trifle irritably. emma mcchesney, in the act of surveying her back hair in the mirror, paused, hand glass poised half way, to regard her son. "all right," she answered cheerfully. "i'll tell you. it's too young." "young!" he held it at arm's length and stared at it. "what d'you mean--young?" emma mcchesney came forward, wrapping the folds of her kimono about her. she took the disputed garment in one hand and held it aloft. "i know that you look like a man on a magazine cover in it. but norfolk suits spell tennis, and seashore, and elegant leisure. and you're going out this morning, son, to interview business men. you're going to try to impress the advertising world with the fact that it needs your expert services. you walk into a business office in a norfolk suit, and everybody from the office boy to the president of the company will ask you what your score is." she tossed it back over his arm. "i'll wear the black and white," said jock resignedly, and turned toward his own room. at his doorway he paused and raised his voice slightly: "for that matter, they're looking for young men. everybody's young. why, the biggest men in the advertising game are just kids." he disappeared within his room, still talking. "look at mcquirk, advertising manager of the combs car company. he's so young he has to disguise himself in bone-trimmed eye-glasses with a black ribbon to get away with it. look at hopper, of the berg, shriner company. pulls down ninety thousand a year, and if he's thirty-five i'll--" "well, you asked my advice," interrupted his mother's voice with that muffled effect which is caused by a skirt being slipped over the head, "and i gave it. wear a white duck sailor suit with blue anchors and carry a red tin pail and a shovel, if you want to look young. only get into it in a jiffy, son, because breakfast will be ready in ten minutes. i can tell by the way annie's crashing the cups. so step lively if you want to pay your lovely mother's subway fare." ten minutes later the slim young figure, in its english-fitting black and white, sat opposite emma mcchesney at the breakfast table and between excited gulps of coffee outlined a meteoric career in his chosen field. and the more he talked and the rosier his figures of speech became, the more silent and thoughtful fell his mother. she wondered if five o'clock would find a droop to the set of those young shoulders; if the springy young legs in their absurdly scant modish trousers would have lost some of their elasticity; if the buoyant step in the flat-heeled shoes would not drag a little. thirteen years of business experience had taught her to swallow smilingly the bitter pill of rebuff. but this boy was to experience his first dose to-day. she felt again that sensation of almost physical nausea--that sickness of heart and spirit which had come over her when she had met her first sneer and intolerant shrug. it had been her maiden trip on the road for the t.a. buck featherloom petticoat company. she was secretary of that company now, and moving spirit in its policy. but the wound of that first insult still ached. a word from her would have placed the boy and saved him from curt refusals. she withheld that word. he must fight his fight alone. "i want to write the kind of ad," jock was saying excitedly, "that you see 'em staring at in the subways, and street cars and l-trains. i want to sit across the aisle and watch their up-turned faces staring at that oblong, and reading it aloud to each other." "isn't that an awfully obvious necktie you're wearing, jock?" inquired his mother irrelevantly. "this? you ought to see some of them. this is a quaker stock in comparison." he glanced down complacently at the vivid-hued silken scarf that the season's mode demanded. immediately he was off again. "and the first thing you know, mrs. mcchesney, ma'am, we'll have a motor truck backing up at the door once a month and six strong men carrying my salary to the freight elevator in sacks." emma mcchesney buttered her bit of toast, then looked up to remark quietly: "hadn't you better qualify for the trial heats, jock, before you jump into the finals?" "trial heats!" sneered jock. "they're poky. i want real money. now! it isn't enough to be just well-to-do in these days. it needs money. i want to be rich! not just prosperous, but rich! so rich that i can let the bath soap float around in the water without any pricks of conscience. so successful that they'll say, 'and he's a mere boy, too. imagine!'" and, "jock dear," emma mcchesney said, "you've still to learn that plans and ambitions are like soap bubbles. the harder you blow and the more you inflate them, the quicker they burst. plans and ambitions are things to be kept locked away in your heart, son, with no one but yourself to take an occasional peep at them." jock leaned over the table, with his charming smile. "you're a jealous blonde," he laughed. "because i'm going to be a captain of finance--an advertising wizard; you're afraid i'll grab the glory all away from you." [illustration: "'you're a jealous blond,' he said"] mrs. mcchesney folded her napkin and rose. she looked unbelievably young, and trim, and radiant, to be the mother of this boasting boy. "i'm not afraid," she drawled, a wicked little glint in her blue eyes. "you see, they'll only regard your feats and say, 'h'm, no wonder. he ought to be able to sell ice to an eskimo. his mother was emma mcchesney.'" and then, being a modern mother, she donned smart autumn hat and tailored suit coat and stood ready to reach her office by nine-thirty. but because she was as motherly as she was modern she swung open the door between kitchen and dining-room to advise with annie, the adept. "lamb chops to-night, eh, annie? and sweet potatoes. jock loves 'em. and corn au gratin and some head lettuce." she glanced toward jock in the hallway, then lowered her voice. "annie," she teased, "just give us one of your peach cobblers, will you? you see he--he's going to be awfully--tired when he gets home." so they went stepping off to work together, mother and son. a mother of twenty-five years before would have watched her son with tear-dimmed eyes from the vine-wreathed porch of a cottage. there was no watching a son from the tenth floor of an up-town apartment house. besides, she had her work to do. the subway swallowed both of them. together they jostled and swung their way down-town in the close packed train. at the twenty-third street station jock left her. "you'll have dinner to-night with a full-fledged professional gent," he bragged, in his youth and exuberance and was off down the aisle and out on the platform. emma mcchesney managed to turn in her nine-inch space of train seat so that she watched the slim, buoyant young figure from the window until the train drew away and he was lost in the stairway jam. just so rachel had watched the boy joseph go to meet the persian caravans in the desert. "don't let them buffalo you, jock," emma had said, just before he left her. "they'll try it. if they give you a broom and tell you to sweep down the back stairs, take it, and sweep, and don't forget the corners. and if, while you're sweeping, you notice that that kind of broom isn't suited to the stairs go in and suggest a new kind. they'll like it." brooms and back stairways had no place in jock mcchesney's mind as the mahogany and gold elevator shot him up to the fourteenth floor of the great office building that housed the berg, shriner company. down the marble hallway he went and into the reception room. a cruel test it was, that reception room, with the cruelty peculiar to the modern in business. with its soft-shaded lamp, its two-toned rug, its jacobean chairs, its magazine-laden cathedral oak table, its pot of bright flowers making a smart touch of color in the somber richness of the room, it was no place for the shabby, the down-and-out, the cringing, the rusty, or the mendicant. jock mcchesney, from the tips of his twelve-dollar shoes to his radiant face, took the test and stood it triumphantly. he had entered with an air in which was mingled the briskness of assurance with the languor of ease. there were times when jock mcchesney was every inch the son of his mother. there advanced toward jock a large, plump, dignified personage, a personage courteous, yet reserved, inquiring, yet not offensively curious--a very machiavelli of reception-room ushers. even while his lips questioned, his eyes appraised clothes, character, conduct. "mr. hupp, please," said jock, serene in the perfection of his shirt, tie, collar and scarf pin, upon which the appraising eye now rested. "mr. mcchesney." he produced a card. "appointment?" "no--but he'll see me." but machiavelli had seen too many overconfident callers. their very confidence had taught him caution. "if you will please state your--ah--business--" jock smiled a little patient smile and brushed an imaginary fleck of dust from the sleeve of his very correct coat. "i want to ask him for a job as office boy," he jibed. an answering grin overspread the fat features of the usher. even an usher likes his little joke. the sense of humor dies hard. "i have a letter from him, asking me to call," said jock, to clinch it. "this way." the keeper of the door led jock toward the sacred inner portal and held it open. "mr. hupp's is the last door to the right." the door closed behind him. jock found himself in the big, busy, light-flooded central office. down either side of the great room ran a row of tiny private offices, each partitioned off, each outfitted with desk, and chairs, and a big, bright window. on his way to the last door at the right jock glanced into each tiny office, glimpsing busy men bent absorbedly over papers, girls busy with dictation, here and there a door revealing two men, or three, deep in discussion of a problem, heads close together, voices low, faces earnest. it came suddenly to the smartly modish, overconfident boy walking the length of the long room that the last person needed in this marvelously perfected and smooth-running organization was a somewhat awed young man named jock mcchesney. there came to him that strange sensation which comes to every job-hunter; that feeling of having his spiritual legs carry him out of the room, past the door, down the hall and into the street, even as, in reality, they bore him on to the very presence which he dreaded and yet wished to see. two steps more, and he stood in the last doorway, right. no matinee idol, nervously awaiting his cue in the wings, could have planned his entrance more carefully than jock had planned this. ease was the thing; ease, bordering on nonchalance, mixed with a brisk and businesslike assurance. the entrance was lost on the man at the desk. he did not even look up. if jock had entered on all-fours, doing a double tango to vocal accompaniment, it is doubtful if the man at the desk would have looked up. pencil between his fingers, head held a trifle to one side in critical contemplation of the work before him, eyes narrowed judicially, lips pursed, he was the concentrated essence of do-it-now. [illustration: "he was the concentrated essence of do-it-now"] jock waited a moment, in silence. the man at the desk worked on. his head was semi-bald. jock knew him to be thirty. jock fixed his eye on the semi-bald spot and spoke. "my name's mcchesney," he began. "i wrote you three days ago; you probably will remember. you replied, asking me to call, and i--" "minute," exploded the man at the desk, still absorbed. jock faltered, stopped. the man at the desk did not look up. a moment of silence, except for the sound of the busy pencil traveling across the paper. jock, glaring at the semi-bald spot, spoke again. "of course, mr. hupp, if you're too busy to see me--" "m-m-m-m," a preoccupied hum, such as a busy man makes when he is trying to give attention to two interests. "--why i suppose there's no sense in staying; but it seems to me that common courtesy--" the busy pencil paused, quivered in the making of a final period, enclosed the dot in a proofreader's circle, and rolled away across the desk, its work done. "now," said sam hupp, and swung around, smiling, to face the affronted jock. "i had to get that out. they're waiting for it." he pressed a desk button. "what can i do for you? sit down, sit down." there was a certain abrupt geniality about him. his tortoise-rimmed glasses gave him an oddly owlish look, like a small boy taking liberties with grandfather's spectacles. jock found himself sitting down, his anger slipping from him. "my name's mcchesney," he began. "i'm here because i want to work for this concern." he braced himself to present the convincing, reason-why arguments with which he had prepared himself. whereupon sam hupp, the brisk, proceeded to whisk his breath and arguments away with an unexpected: "all right. what do you want to do?" jock's mouth fell open. "do!" he stammered. "do! why--anything--" sam hupp's quick eye swept over the slim, attractive, radiant, correctly-garbed young figure before him. unconsciously he rubbed his bald spot with a rueful hand. "know anything about writing, or advertising?" jock was at ease immediately. "quite a lot; yes. i practically rewrote the gridiron play that we gave last year, and i was assistant advertising manager of the college publications for two years. that gives a fellow a pretty broad knowledge of advertising." "oh, lord!" groaned sam hupp, and covered his eyes with his hand, as if in pain. jock stared. the affronted feeling was returning. sam hupp recovered himself and smiled a little wistfully. "mcchesney, when i came up here twelve years ago i got a job as reception-room usher. a reception-room usher is an office boy in long pants. sometimes, when i'm optimistic, i think that if i live twelve years longer i'll begin to know something about the rudiments of this game." "oh, of course," began jock, apologetically. but hupp's glance was over his head. involuntarily jock turned to follow the direction of his eyes. "busy?" said a voice from the doorway. "come in, dutch! come in!" boomed hupp. the man who entered was of the sort that the boldest might well hesitate to address as "dutch"--a tall, slim, elegant figure, van-dyked, bronzed. "mcchesney, this is von herman, head of our art department." their hands met in a brief clasp. von herman's thoughts were evidently elsewhere. "just wanted to tell you that that cussed model's skipped out. gone with a show. just when i had the whole series blocked out in my mind. he was a wonder. no brains, but a marvel for looks and style. these people want real stuff. don't know how i'm going to give it to them now." hupp sat up. "got to!" he snapped. "campaign's late, as it is. can't you get an ordinary man model and fake the greek god beauty?" "yes--but it'll look faked. if i could lay my hands on a chap who could wear clothes as if they belonged to him--" hupp rose. "here's your man," he cried, with a snap of his fingers. "clothes! look at him. he invented 'em. why, you could photograph him and he'd look like a drawing." von herman turned, surprised, incredulous, hopeful, his artist eye brightening at the ease and grace and modishness of the smart, well-knit figure before him. "me!" exploded jock, his face suffused with a dull, painful red. "me! pose! for a clothing ad!" "well," hupp reminded him, "you said you'd do anything." jock mcchesney glared belligerently. hupp returned the stare with a faint gleam of amusement shining behind the absurd glasses. the amused look changed to surprise as he beheld the glare in jock's eyes fading. for even as he glared there had come a warning to jock--a warning sent just in time from that wireless station located in his subconscious mind. a vivid face, full of pride, and hope, and encouragement flashed before him. "jock," it said, "don't let 'em buffalo you. they'll try it. if they give you a broom and tell you to sweep down the back stairs--" jock was smiling his charming, boyish smile. "lead me to your north light," he laughed at von herman. "got any robert w. chambers's heroines tucked away there?" hupp's broad hand came down on his shoulder with a thwack. "that's the spirit, mcchesney! that's the--" he stopped, abruptly. "say, are you related to mrs. emma mcchesney, of the featherloom skirt company?" "slightly. she's my one and only mother." "she--you mean--her son! well i'll be darned!" he held out his hand to jock. "if you're a real son of your mother i wish you'd just call the office boy as you step down the hall with von herman and tell him to bring me a hammer and a couple of spikes. i'd better nail down my desk." "i'll promise not to crowd you for a year or two," grinned jock from the doorway, and was off with the pleased von herman. past the double row of beehives again, into the elevator, out again, up a narrow iron stairway, into a busy, cluttered, skylighted room. pictures, posters, photographs hung all about. some of the pictures jock recognized as old friends that had gazed familiarly at him from subway trains and street cars and theater programmes. golf clubs, tennis rackets, walking sticks, billiard cues were stacked up in corners. and yet there was a bare and orderly look about the place. two silent, shirt-sleeved men were busy at drawing boards. through a doorway beyond jock could see others similarly engaged in the next room. on a platform in one corner of the room posed a young man in one of those costumes the coat of which is a mongrel mixture of cutaway and sack. you see them worn by clergymen with unsecular ideas in dress, and by the leader of the counterfeiters' gang in the moving pictures. the pose was that met with in the backs of magazines--the head lifted, eyes fixed on an interesting object unseen, one arm crooked to hold a cane, one foot advanced, the other trailing slightly to give a fifth avenue four o'clock air. his face was expressionless. on his head was a sadly unironed silk hat. von herman glanced at the drawing tacked to the board of one of the men. "that'll do, flynn," he said to the model. he glanced again at the drawing. "bring out the hat a little more, mack. they won't burnish it if you don't,"--to the artist. then, turning about, "where's that girl?" from a far corner, sheltered by long green curtains, stepped a graceful almost childishly slim figure in a bronze-green norfolk suit and close-fitting hat from beneath which curled a fluff of bright golden hair. von herman stared at her. "you're not the girl," he said. "you won't do." "you sent for me," retorted the girl. "i'm miss michelin--gelda michelin. i posed for you six months ago, but i've been out of town with the show since then." von herman, frowning, opened a table drawer, pulled out a card index, ran his long fingers through it and extracted a card. he glanced at it, and then, the frown deepening, read it aloud. "'michelin, gelda. telephone bryant . brunette. medium build. good neck and eyes. good figure. good clothes.'" he glanced up. "well?" "that's me," said miss michelin calmly. "i've got the same telephone number and eyes and neck and clothes. of course my hair is different and i am thinner, but that's business. i'd like to know what chance a fat girl would have in the chorus these days." von herman groaned. "i'll pay you for the time you've waited and for your trouble. can't use you for these pictures." then as she left he turned a comically despairing face to the two men at the drawing boards. "what are we going to do? we've got to make a start on these pictures and everything has gone wrong. they want something special. two figures, young man and woman. said expressly they didn't want a chicken. no romping curls and none of that eyes and lips fool-girl stuff. this chap's ideal for the man." he pointed to jock. jock had been staring, fascinated, at the shaded, zigzag marks which the artist--dark-skinned, velvet-eyed, foreign-looking youth--was making on the sheet of paper before him. he had scarcely glanced up during the entire scene. now he looked briefly and coolly at jock. "where did you get him?" he asked, with the precise enunciation of the foreign-born. "good figure. and he wears his clothes not like a cab driver, as the others do." "thanks," drawled jock, flushing a little. then, boyish curiosity getting the better of him, "say, tell me, what in the world are you doing to that drawing?" he of the velvety eyes smiled a twisted little smile. his slim brown fingers never stopped in their work of guiding the pen in its zigzag path. "it is work," he sneered, "to delight the soul of an artist. i am now engaged in the pleasing task of putting the bones in a herringbone suit." but jock did not smile. here was another man, he thought, who had been given a broom and told to sweep down the stairway. von herman was regarding him almost wistfully. "i hate to let you slip," he said. then, his face brightening, "by jove! i wonder if miss galt would pose for us if we told her what a fix we were in." he picked up the telephone receiver. "miss galt, please," he said. then, aside, "of course it's nerve to ask a girl who's earning three thousand a year to leave her desk and come up and pose for--hello! miss galt?" jock, seated on the edge of the models' platform, was beginning to enjoy himself. even this end of the advertising business had its interesting side, he thought. ten minutes later he knew it had. ten minutes later there appeared miss galt. jock left off swinging his legs from the platform and stood up. miss galt was that kind of girl. smooth black hair parted and coiled low as only an exquisitely shaped head can dare to wear its glory-crown. a face whose expression was sweetly serious in spite of its youth. a girl whose clothes were the sort of clothes that girls ought to wear in offices, and don't. "this is mighty good of you, miss galt," began von herman. "it's the kool komfort klothes company's summer campaign stuff. we'll only need you for an hour or so--to get the expression and general outline. poster stuff, really. then this young man will pose for the summer union suit pictures." "don't apologize," said miss galt. "we had a hard enough time to get that kool komfort account. we don't want to start wrong with the pictures. besides, i think posing's real fun." jock thought so too, quite suddenly. just as suddenly von herman remembered the conventions and introduced them. "mcchesney?" repeated miss galt, crisply. "i know a mrs. mcchesney, of the t.a. buck--" "my mother," proudly. "your mother! then why--" she stopped. "because," said jock, "i'm the rawest rooky in the berg, shriner company. and when i begin to realize what i don't know about advertising i'll probably want to plunge off the palisades." miss galt smiled up at him, her clear, frank eyes meeting his. "you'll win," she said. "even if i lose--i win now," said jock, suddenly audacious. "hi! hold that pose!" called von herman, happily. [illustration: "'hi! hold that pose!' called von herman"] ii personality plus there are seven stages in the evolution of that individual whose appearance is the signal for a listless "who-do-you-want-to-see?" from the white-bloused, drab-haired, anæmic little girl who sits in the outer office forever reading last month's magazines. the badge of fear brands the novice. standing hat in hand, nervous, apprehensive, gulpy, with the elevator door clanging behind him, and the sacred inner door closed before him, he offers up a silent and paradoxical "thank heaven!" at the office girl's languid "not in," and dives into the friendly shelter of the next elevator going down. when, at that same message, he can smile, as with a certain grim agreeableness he says, "i'll wait," then has he reached the seventh stage, and taken the orders of the regularly ordained. jock mcchesney had learned to judge an unknown prospective by glancing at his hall rug and stenographer, which marks the fifth stage. he had learned to regard office boys with something less than white-hot hate. he had learned to let the other fellow do the talking. he had learned to condense a written report into twenty-five words. and he had learned that there was as much difference between the profession of advertising as he had thought of it and advertising as it really was, as there is between a steam calliope and a cathedral pipe organ. in the big office of the berg, shriner advertising company they had begun to chuckle a bit over the mcchesney solicitor's reports. those same reports indicated that young mcchesney was beginning to find the key to that maddening jumble of complexities known as human nature. big sam hupp, who was the pet caged copy-writing genius of the place, used even to bring an occasional example of jock's business badinage into the old man's office, and the two would grin in secret. as when they ran thus: _pepsinale manufacturing company_: mr. bowser is the kind of gentleman who curses his subordinates in front of the whole office force. very touchy. crumpled his advertising manager. our chance to get at him is when he is in one of his rare good humors. or: _e.v. kreiss company_: kreiss very difficult to reach. permanent address seems to be italy, egypt, and other foreign ports. occasionally his instructions come from palm beach. at which there rose up before the reader a vision of kreiss himself--baggy-eyed, cultivated english accent, interested in polo, fast growing contemptuous of things american. or still another: _hodge manufacturing company:_ mr. hodge is a very conservative gentleman. sits still and lets others do the talking. has gained quite a reputation for business acumen with this one attribute. spent $ last year. holding his breath preparatory to taking another plunge. it was about the time that jock mcchesney had got over the novelty of paying for his own clothes, and had begun to talk business in a slightly patronizing way to his clever and secretly amused mother, mrs. emma mcchesney, secretary of the t.a. buck featherloom petticoat company, that sam hupp noticed a rather cocky over-assurance in jock's attitude toward the world in general. whereupon he sent for him. on sam hupp's broad flat desk stood an array of diminutive jars, and bottles, and tiny pots that would have shamed the toilette table of a musical comedy star's dressing-room. there were rose-tinted salves in white bottles. there were white creams in rose-tinted jars. there were tins of ointment and boxes of fragrant soap. jock mcchesney, entering briskly, eyed the array in some surprise. then he grinned, and glanced wickedly at sam hupp's prematurely bald head. "no use, mr. hupp. they say if it's once gone it's gone. get a toupee." "shut up!" growled sam hupp, good-humoredly. "stay in this game long enough and you'll be a hairless wonder yourself. ten years ago the girls used to have to tie their hands or wear mittens to keep from running their white fingers through my waving silken locks. sit down a minute." jock reached forward and took up a jar of cream. he frowned in thought. then: "thought i recognized this stuff. mother uses it. i've seen it on the bathroom shelf." "you bet she uses it," retorted sam hupp. "what's more, millions of other women will be using it in the next few years. this woman," he pointed to the name on the label, "has hit upon the real thing in toilette flub-dub. she's made a little fortune already, and if she don't look out she'll be rich. they've got quite a plant. when she started she used to put the stuff together herself over the kitchen stove. they say it's made of cottage cheese, stirred smooth and tinted pink. well, anyway they're nationally known now--or will be when they start to advertise right." "i've seen some of their stuff advertised--somewhere," interrupted jock, "but i don't remember--" "there you are. you see the head of this concern is a little bit frightened at the way she seems slated to become a lady cold cream magnate. they say she's scared pink for fear somebody will steal her recipes. she has a kid nephew who acts as general manager, and they're both on the job all the time. they say the lady herself looks like the spinster in a b'gosh drama. you can get a boy to look up your train schedule." train! schedule! across jock mcchesney's mind there flashed a vision of himself, alert, confident, brisk, taking the luxurious nine o'clock for philadelphia. or, maybe, the limited to chicago. dashing down to the station in a taxi, of course. strolling down the car aisle to take his place among those other thoroughbreds of commerce--men whose chamois gloves and walking sticks, and talk of golf and baseball and motoring spelled elegant leisure, even as their keen eyes and shrewd faces and low-voiced exchange of such terms as "stocks," and "sales" and "propositions" proclaimed them intent on bagging the day's business. sam hupp's next words brought him back to reality with a jerk. "i think you have to change at buffalo. it gets you to tonawanda in the morning. rotten train." "tonawanda!" repeated jock. "now listen, kid." sam hupp leaned forward, and his eyes behind their great round black-rimmed glasses were intent on jock. "i'm not going to try to steer you. you think that advertising is a game. it isn't. there are those who think it's a science. but it isn't that either. it's white magic, that's what it is. and you can't learn it from books, any more than you can master trout fishing from reading 'the complete angler.'" he swung about and swept the beauty lotions before him in a little heap at the end of his desk. "here, take this stuff. and get chummy with it. eat it, if necessary; learn it somehow." jock stood up, a little dazed. "but, what!--how?--i mean--" sam hupp glanced up at him. "sending you down there isn't my idea. it's the old man's. he's got an idea that you--" he paused and put a detaining hand on jock mcchesney's arm. "look here. you think i know a little something about advertising, don't you?" "you!" laughed jock. "you're the guy who put the whitening in the great white way. everybody knows you were the--" "m-m-m, thanks," interrupted sam hupp, a little dryly. "let me tell you something, young 'un. i've got what you might call a thirty-horse-power mind. i keep it running on high all the time, with the muffler cut out, and you can hear me coming for miles. but the old man,"--he leaned forward impressively,--"the old man, boy, has the eighty-power kind, built like a watch--no smoke, no dripping, and you can't even hear the engine purr. but when he throws her open! well, he can pass everything on the road. don't forget that." he turned to his desk again and reached for a stack of papers and cuts. "good luck to you. if you want any further details you can get 'em from hayes." he plunged into his work. there arose in jock mcchesney's mind that instinct of the man in his hour of triumph--the desire to tell a woman of his greatness. he paused a second outside sam hupp's office, turned, and walked quickly down the length of the great central room. he stopped before a little glass door at the end, tapped lightly, and entered. grace galt, copy-writer, looked up, frowning a little. then she smiled. miss galt had a complete layout on the desk before her--scrap books, cuts, copy, magazines. there was a little smudge on the end of her nose. grace galt was writing about magnetos. she was writing about magnetos in a way to make you want to drop your customer, or your ironing, or your game, and go downtown and buy that particular kind of magneto at once. which is the secretest part of the wizardry of advertising copy. to look at grace galt you would have thought that she should have been writing about the rose-tinted jars in jock mcchesney's hands instead of about such things as ignition, and insulation, and ball bearings, and induction windings. but it was grace galt's gift that she could take just such hard, dry, technical facts and weave them into a story that you followed to the end. she could make you see the romance in condensers and transformers. she had the power that caused the reader to lose himself in the charm of magnetic poles, and ball bearings, and high-tension sparks. "just dropped in to say good-by," said jock, very casually. "going to run up-state to see the athena company--toilette specialties, you know. it ought to be a big account." "athena?" grace galt regarded him absently, her mind still on her work. then her eyes cleared. "you mean at tonawanda? and they're sending you! well!" she put out a congratulatory hand. jock gripped it gratefully. "not so bad, eh?" he boasted. "bad!" echoed grace galt. her face became serious. "do you realize that there are men in this office who have been here for five years, six years, or even more, and who have never been given a chance to do anything but stenography, or perhaps some private secretarying?" "i know it," agreed jock. but there was no humbleness in his tone. he radiated self-satisfaction. he seemed to grow and expand before her eyes. a little shadow of doubt crept across grace galt's expression of friendly interest. "are you scared," she asked; "just the least bit?" jock flushed a little. "well," he confessed ruefully, "i don't mind telling you i am--a little." "good!" "good?" "yes. the head of that concern is a woman. that's one reason why they didn't send me, i suppose. i--i'd like to say something, if you don't mind." "anything you like," said jock graciously. "well, then, don't be afraid of being embarrassed and fussed. if you blush and stammer a little, she'll like it. play up the coy stuff." "the coy stuff!" echoed jock. "i hadn't thought much about my attitude toward the--er--the lady,"--a little stiffly. "well, you'd better," answered miss galt crisply. she put out her hand in much the same manner as sam hupp had used. "good luck to you. i'll have to ask you to go now. i'm trying to make this magneto sound like something without which no home is complete, and to make people see that there's as much difference between it and every other magneto as there is between the steam shovels that dug out the panama canal and the junk that the french left there--" she stopped. her eyes took on a far-away look. her lips were parted slightly. "why, that's not a bad idea--that last. i'll use that. i'll--" [illustration: "with a jolt jock realized she had forgotten all about him"] she began to scribble rapidly on the sheet of paper before her. with a jolt jock mcchesney realized that she had forgotten all about him. he walked quietly to the door, opened it, shut it very quietly, then made for the nearest telephone. he knew one woman he could count on to be proud of him. he gave his number, waited a little eager moment, then: "featherloom petticoat company? mrs. mcchesney." and waited again. then he smiled. "you needn't sound so official," he laughed; "it's only your son. listen. i"--he took on an elaborate carelessness of tone--"i've got to take a little jump out of town. on business. oh, a day or so. rather important though. i'll have time to run up to the flat and throw a few things into a bag. i'll tell you, i really ought to keep a bag packed down here. in case of emergency, you know. what? it's the athena toilette preparations company. well, i should say it is! i'll wire you. you bet. thanks. my what? oh, toothbrush. no. good-by." so it was that at three-ten jock mcchesney took himself, his hopes, his dread, and his smart walrus bag aboard a train that halted and snuffed and backed, and bumped and halted with maddening frequency. but it landed him at last in a little town bearing the characteristics of all american little towns. it was surprisingly full of six-cylinder cars, and five and ten-cent stores, and banks with doric columns, and paved streets. after he had registered at the hotel, and as he was cleaning up a bit, he passed an amused eye over the bare, ugly, fusty little hotel bedroom. but somehow, as he stood in the middle of the room, a graceful, pleasing figure of youth and confidence, the smile faded. towel in hand he surveyed the barrenness of it. he stared at the impossible wall paper, at the battered furniture, the worn carpet. he sniffed the stuffy smell of--what was that smell, anyhow?--straw, and matting, and dust, and the ghost-odor of hundreds who had occupied the room before him. it came over him with something of a shock that this same sort of room had been his mother's only home in the ten years she had spent on the road as a traveling saleswoman for the t.a. buck featherloom petticoat company. this was what she had left in the morning. to this she had come back at night. as he stared ahead of him there rose before him a mental picture of her--the brightness of her, the sunniness, the indomitable energy, and pluck, and courage. with a sudden burst of new determination he wadded the towel into a moist ball, flung it at the washstand, seized hat, coat, and gloves, and was off down the hall. so it was with something of his mother's splendid courage in his heart, but with nothing of her canny knowledge in his head, jock mcchesney fared forth to do battle with the merciless god business. it was ten-thirty of a brilliant morning just two days later that a buoyant young figure swung into an elevator in the great office building that housed the berg, shriner advertising company. just one more grain of buoyant swing and the young man's walk might have been termed a swagger. as it was, his walrus bag just saved him. stepping out of the lift he walked, as from habit, to the little unlettered door which admitted employes to the big, bright, inner office. but he did not use it. instead he turned suddenly and walked down the hall to the double door which led into the reception room. he threw out his legs stiffly and came down rather flat-footed, the way george cohan does when he's pleased with himself in the second act. "hel-lo, mack!" he called out jovially. mack, the usher, so called from his machiavellian qualities, turned to survey the radiant young figure before him. "good morning, mr. mcchesney," he made answer smoothly. mack never forgot himself. his keen eye saw the little halo of self-satisfaction that hovered above jock mcchesney's head. "a successful trip, i see." jock mcchesney laughed a little, pleased, conscious laugh. "well, raw-thah!" he drawled, and opened the door leading into the main office. he had been loath to lose one crumb of the savor of it. [illustration: "'well, raw-thah!' he drawled"] still smiling, he walked to his own desk, with a nod here and there, dropped his bag, took off coat and hat, selected a cigarette, tapped it smartly, lighted it, and was off down the big room to the little cubby-hole at the other end. but sam hupp's plump, keen, good-humored face did not greet him as he entered. the little room was deserted. frowning, jock sank into the empty desk chair. he cradled his head in his hands, tilted the chair, pursed his mouth over the slender white cylinder and squinted his eyes up toward the lazy blue spirals of smoke--the very picture of content and satisfaction. hupp was in attending some conference in the old man's office, of course. he wished they'd hurry. the business of the week was being boiled-down there. those conferences were great cauldrons into which the day's business, or the week's, was dumped, to be boiled, simmered, stirred, skimmed, cooled. jock had never been privileged to attend one of these meetings. perhaps by this time next week he might have a spoon in the stirring too-- there came the murmur of voices as a door was opened. the voices came nearer. then quick footsteps. jock recognized them. he rose, smiling. sam hupp, vibrating electric energy, breezed in. "oh--hello!" he said, surprised. jock's smile widened to a grin. "you back?" "hello, hupp," he said, coolly. it was the first time that he had omitted the prefix. "you just bet i'm back." there flashed across sam hupp's face a curious little look. the next instant it was gone. "well," said jock, and took a long breath. "mr. berg wants to see you." hupp plunged into his work. "me? the old man wants to see me?" "yes," snapped hupp shortly. then, in a new tone, "look here, son. if he says--" he stopped, and turned back to his work again. "if he says what?" "nothing. better run along." "what's the hurry? i want to tell you about--" "better tell him." "oh, all right," said jock stiffly. if that was the way they treated a fellow who had turned his first real trick, why, very well. he flung out of the little room and made straight for the old man's office. seated at his great flat table desk, bartholomew berg did not look up as jock entered. this was characteristic of the old man. everything about the chief was deliberate, sure, unhurried. he finished the work in hand as though no other person stood there waiting his pleasure. when at last he raised his massive head he turned his penetrating pale blue eyes full on jock. jock was conscious of a little tremor running through him. people were apt to experience that feeling when that steady, unblinking gaze was turned upon them. and yet it was just the clear, unwavering look with which bartholomew berg, farmer boy, had been wont to gaze out across the fresh-plowed fields to the horizon beyond which lay the city he dreamed about. "tell me your side of it," said bartholomew berg tersely. "all of it?" jock's confidence was returning. "till i stop you." "well," began jock. and standing there at the side of the old man's desk, his legs wide apart, his face aglow, his hands on his hips, he plunged into his tale. "it started off with a bang from the minute i walked into the office of the plant and met snyder, the advertising manager. we shook hands and sparked--just like that." he snapped thumb and finger. "what do you think! we belong to the same frat! he's ' . inside of ten minutes he and i were si-washing around like mad. he introduced me to his aunt. i told her who i was, and all that. but i didn't start off by talking business. we got along from the jump. they both insisted on showing me through the place. i--well,"--he laughed a little ruefully,--"there's something about being shown through a factory that sort of paralyzes my brain. i always feel that i ought to be asking keen, alert, intelligent questions like the ones kipling always asks, or the japs when they're taken through the stock yards. but i never can think of any. well, we didn't talk business much. but i could see that they were interested. they seemed to,"--he faltered and blushed a little,--"to like me, you know. i played golf with snyder that afternoon and he beat me. won two balls. the next morning i found there's been a couple of other advertising men there. and while i was talking to snyder--he was telling me about the time he climbed up and muffled the chapel bell--that fellow flynn, of the dowd agency, came in. snyder excused himself, and talked to him for--oh, half an hour, perhaps. but that was all. he was back again in no time. after that it looked like plain sailing. we got along wonderfully. when i left i said, 'i expect to know you both better--'" "i guess," interrupted the old man slowly, "that you'll know them better all right." he reached out with one broad freckled hand and turned back the page of a desk memorandum. "the athena account was given to the dowd advertising agency yesterday." it took jock mcchesney one minute--one long, sickening minute--to grasp the full meaning of it all. he stared at the massive figure before him, his mouth ludicrously open, his eyes round, his breath for the moment suspended. then, in a queer husky voice: "d'you mean--the dowd--but--they couldn't--" "i mean," said bartholomew berg, "that you've scored what the dramatic critics call a personal hit; but that doesn't get the box office anything." "but, mr. berg, they said--" "sit down a minute, boy." he waved one great heavy hand toward a near-by chair. his eyes were not fixed on jock. they gazed out of the window toward the great white tower toward which hundreds of thousands of eyes were turned daily--the tower, four-faced but faithful. "mcchesney, do you know why you fell down on that athena account?" "because i'm an idiot," blurted jock. "because i'm a double-barreled, corn-fed, hand-picked chump and--" "that's one reason," drawled the old man grimly. "but it's not the chief one. the real reason why you didn't land that account was because you're too darned charming." "charming!" jock stared. "just that. personality's one of the biggest factors in business to-day. but there are some men who are so likable that it actually counts against them. the client he's trying to convince is so taken with him that he actually forgets the business he represents. we say of a man like that that he is personality plus. personality is like electricity, mcchesney. it's got to be tamed to be useful." "but i thought," said jock, miserably, "that the idea was not to talk business all the time." "you've got it," agreed berg. "but you must think it all the time. every minute. it's got to be working away in the back of your head. you know it isn't always the biggest noise that gets the biggest result. the great american hen yields a bigger income than the steel trust. look at miss galt. when we have a job that needs a woman's eye do we send her? no. why? because she's too blame charming. too much personality. a man just naturally refuses to talk business to a pretty woman unless she's so smart that--" "my mother," interrupted jock, suddenly, and then stopped, surprised at himself. "your mother," said bartholomew berg slowly, "is one woman in a million. don't ever forget that. they don't turn out models like emma mcchesney more than once every blue moon." jock got to his feet slowly. he felt heavy, old. "i suppose," he began, "that this ends my--my advertising career." "ends it!" the old man stood up and put a heavy hand on the boy's shoulder. "it only begins it. unless you want to lie down and quit. do you?" "quit!" cried jock mcchesney. "quit! not on your white space!" "good!" said bartholomew berg, and took jock mcchesney's hand in his own great friendly grasp. an instinct as strong as that which had made him blatant in his hour of triumph now caused him to avoid, in his hour of defeat, the women-folk before whom he would fain be a hero. he avoided grace galt all that long, dreary afternoon. he thought wildly of staying down-town for the evening, of putting off the meeting with his mother, of avoiding the dreaded explanations, excuses, confessions. but when he let himself into the flat at five-thirty the place was very quiet, except for annie, humming in a sort of nasal singsong of content in the kitchen. he flicked on the light in the living-room. a new magazine had come. it lay on the table, its bright cover staring up invitingly. he ran through its pages. by force of habit he turned to the back pages. ads started back at him--clothing ads, paint ads, motor ads, ads of portable houses, and vacuum cleaners--and toilette preparations. he shut the magazine with a vicious slap. he flicked off the light again, for no reason except that he seemed to like the dusk. in his own bedroom it was very quiet. he turned on the light there, too, then turned it off. he sat down at the edge of his bed. how was it in the stories? oh, yes! the cub always started out on an impossibly difficult business stunt and came back triumphant, to be made a member of the firm at once. a vision of his own roseate hopes and dreams rose up before him. it grew very dark in the little room, then altogether dark. then an impudent square of yellow from a light turned on in the apartment next door flung itself on the bedroom floor. jock stared at it moodily. a key turned in the lock. a door opened and shut. a quick step. then: "jock!" a light flashed in the living-room. jock sat up suddenly. he opened his mouth to answer. there issued from his throat a strange and absurd little croak. "jock! home?" "yes," answered jock, and straightened up. but before he could flick on his own light his mother stood in the doorway, a tall, straight, buoyant figure. "i got your wire and--why, dear! in the dark! what--" "must have fallen asleep, i guess," muttered jock. somehow he dreaded to turn on the lights. and then, very quietly, emma mcchesney came in. she found him, there in the dark, as surely as a mother bear finds her cubs in a cave. she sat down beside him at the edge of the bed and put her hand on his shoulder, and brought his head down gently to her breast. and at that the room, which had been a man's room with its pipe, its tobacco jar, its tie rack filled with cravats of fascinating shapes and hues, became all at once a boy's room again, and the man sitting there with straight, strong shoulders and his little air of worldliness became in some miraculous way a little boy again. [illustration: "... became in some miraculous way a little boy again"] iii dictated but not read about the time that jock mcchesney began to carry a yellow walking-stick down to work each morning his mother noticed a growing tendency on his part to patronize her. now mrs. emma mcchesney, successful, capable business woman that she was, could afford to regard her young son's attitude with a quiet and deep amusement. in twelve years emma mcchesney had risen from the humble position of stenographer in the office of the t.a. buck featherloom petticoat company to the secretaryship of the firm. so when her young son, backed by the profound business knowledge gained in his one year with the berg, shriner advertising company, hinted gently that her methods and training were archaic, ineffectual, and lacking in those twin condiments known to the twentieth century as pep and ginger, she would listen, eyebrows raised, lower lip caught between her teeth--a trick which gives a distorted expression to the features, calculated to hide any lurking tendency to grin. besides, though emma mcchesney was forty she looked thirty-two (as business women do), and knew it. her hard-working life had brought her in contact with people, and things, and events, and had kept her young. [illustration: "jock mcchesney began to carry a yellow walking-stick down to work"] "thank fortune!" mrs. mcchesney often said, "that i wasn't cursed with a life of ease. these massage-at-ten-fitting-at-eleven-bridge-at-one women always look such hags at thirty-five." but repetition will ruin the rarest of jokes. as the weeks went on and jock's attitude persisted, the twinkle in emma mcchesney's eye died. the glow of growing resentment began to burn in its place. now and then there crept into her eyes a little look of doubt and bewilderment. you sometimes see that same little shocked, dazed expression in the eyes of a woman whose husband has just said, "isn't that hat too young for you?" then, one evening, emma mcchesney's resentment flared into open revolt. she had announced that she intended to rise half an hour earlier each morning in order that she might walk a brisk mile or so on her way down-town, before taking the subway. "but won't it tire you too much, mother?" jock had asked with maddeningly tender solicitude. his mother's color heightened. her blue eyes glowed dark. "look here, jock! will you kindly stop this lean-on-me-grandma stuff! to hear you talk one would think i was ready for a wheel chair and gray woolen bedroom slippers." "why, i didn't mean--i only thought that perhaps overexertion in a woman of your--that is, you need your energy for--" "don't wallow around in it," snapped emma mcchesney. "you'll only sink in deeper in your efforts to crawl out. i merely want to warn you that if you persist in this pose of tender solicitude for your doddering old mother, i'll--i'll present you with a stepfather a year younger than you. don't laugh. perhaps you think i couldn't do it." "good lord, mother! of course you don't mean it, but--" "mean it! cleverer women than i have been driven by their children to marrying bell-boys in self-defense. i warn you!" [illustration: "'good lord, mother! of course you don't mean it, but--'"] that stopped it--for a while. jock ceased to bestow upon his mother judicious advice from the vast storehouse of his own experience. he refrained from breaking out with elaborate advertising schemes whereby the t.a. buck featherloom petticoat company might grind every other skirt concern to dust. he gave only a startled look when his mother mischievously suggested raspberry as the color for her new autumn suit. then, quite suddenly, circumstance caught emma mcchesney in the meshes and, before she had fought her way free, wrought trouble and change upon her. jock mcchesney was seated in the window of his mother's office at noon of a brilliant autumn day. a little impatient frown was forming between his eyes. he wanted his luncheon. he had called around expressly to take his mother out to luncheon--always a festive occasion when taken together. but mrs. mcchesney, seated at her desk, was bent absorbedly over a sheet of paper whereon she was adding up two columns of figures at a time--a trick on which she rather prided herself. she was counting aloud, her mind leaping agilely, thus: "eleven, twenty-nine, forty-three, sixty, sixty-nine--" her pencil came down on the desk with a thwack. "sixty-nine!" she repeated in capital letters. she turned around to face jock. "sixty-nine!" her voice bristled with indignation. "now what do you think of that!" "i think you'd better make it an even seventy, whatever it is you're counting up, and come on out to luncheon. i've an appointment at two-fifteen, you know." "luncheon!"--she waved the paper in the air--"with this outrage on my mind! nectar would curdle in my system." jock rose and strolled lazily over to the desk. "what is it?" he glanced idly at the sheet of paper. "sixty-nine what?" mrs. mcchesney pressed a buzzer at the side of her desk. "sixty-nine dollars, that's what! representing two days' expenses in the six weeks' missionary trip that fat ed meyers just made for us. and in iowa, too." "when you gave that fellow the job," began jock hotly, "i told you, and buck told you, that--" mrs. mcchesney interrupted wearily. "yes, i know. you'll never have a grander chance to say 'i told you so.' i hired him because he was out of a job and we needed a man who knew the middle-western trade, and then because--well, poor fellow, he begged so and promised to keep straight. as though i oughtn't to know that a pinochle-and-poker traveling man can never be anything but a pinochle-and-poker traveling man--" the office door opened as there appeared in answer to the buzzer a very alert, very smiling, and very tidy office girl. emma mcchesney had tried office boys, and found them wanting. "tell mr. meyers i want to see him." "just going out to lunch,"--she turned like a race horse trembling to be off,--"putting on his overcoat in the front office. shall i--" "catch him." "listen here," began jock uncomfortably; "if you're going to call him perhaps i'd better vanish." "to save ed meyers's tender feelings! you don't know him. fat ed meyers could be courtmartialed, tried, convicted, and publicly disgraced, with his epaulets torn off, and his sword broken, and likely as not he'd stoop down, pick up a splinter of steel to use as a toothpick, and castlewalk down the aisle to the tune with which they were drumming him out of the regiment. stay right here. meyers's explanation ought to be at least amusing, if not educating." in the corridor outside could be heard some one blithely humming in the throaty tenor of the fat man. the humming ceased with a last high note as the door opened and there entered fat ed meyers, rosy, cherubic, smiling, his huge frame looming mountainous in the rippling folds of a loose-hung london plaid topcoat. "greetings!" boomed this cheery vision, raising one hand, palm outward, in mystic salute. he beamed upon the frowning jock. "how's the infant prodigy!" the fact that jock's frown deepened to a scowl ruffled him not at all. "and what," went on he, crossing his feet and leaning negligently against mrs. mcchesney's desk, "and what can i do for thee, fair lady?" [illustration: "'greetings!'"] "for me?" said emma mcchesney, looking up at him through narrowed eyelids. "i'll tell you what. you can explain to me, in what they call a few well-chosen words, just how you, or any other living creature, could manage to turn in an expense account like that on a six-weeks' missionary trip through the middle west." "dear lady,"--in the bland tones that one uses to an unreasonable child,--"you will need no explanation if you will just remember to lay the stress on the word missionary. i went forth through the middle west to spread the light among the benighted skirt trade. this wasn't a selling trip, dear lady. it was a buying expedition. and i had to buy, didn't i? all the way from michigan to indiana." he smiled down at her, calm, self-assured, impudent. a little flush grew in emma mcchesney's cheeks. "i've always said," she began, crisply, "that one could pretty well judge a man's character, temperament, morals, and physical make-up by just glancing at his expense account. the trouble with you is that you haven't learned the art of spending money wisely. it isn't always the man with the largest expense sheet that gets the most business. and it isn't the man who leaves the greatest number of circles on the table top in his hotel room, either." she paused a moment. ed meyers's smile had lost some of its heartiness. "mr. buck's out of town, as you know. he'll be back next week. he wasn't in favor of--" "now, mrs. mcchesney," interrupted ed meyers nervously, "you know there's always one live one in every firm, just like there's always one star in every family. you're the--" "i'm the one who wants to know how you could spend sixty-nine dollars for two days' incidentals in iowa. iowa! why, look here, ed meyers, i made iowa for ten years when i was on the road. you know that. and you know, and i know, that in order to spend sixty-nine dollars for incidentals in two days in iowa you have to call out the militia." "not when you're trying to win the love of every skirt buyer from sioux city to des moines." emma mcchesney rose impatiently. "oh, that's nonsense! you don't need to do that these days. those are old-fashioned methods. they're out of date. they--" at that a little sound came from jock. emma heard it, glanced at him, turned away again in confusion. "i was foolish enough in the first place to give you this job for old times' sake," she continued hurriedly. fat ed meyers' face drooped dolefully. he cocked his round head on one side fatuously. "for old times' sake," he repeated, with tremulous pathos, and heaved a gusty sigh. "which goes to show that i need a guardian," finished emma mcchesney cruelly. "the only old times that i can remember are when i was selling featherlooms, and you were out for the sans-silk skirt company, both covering the same territory, and both running a year-around race to see which could beat the other at his own game. the only difference was that i always played fair, while you played low-down whenever you had a chance." "now, my dear mrs. mcchesney--" "that'll be all," said emma mcchesney, as one whose patience is fast slipping away. "mr. buck will see you next week." then, turning to her son as the door closed on the drooping figure of the erstwhile buoyant meyers, "where'll we lunch, jock?" "mother," jock broke out hotly, "why in the name of all that's foolish do you persist in using the methods of methuselah! people don't sell goods any more by sending out fat old ex-traveling men to jolly up the trade." "jock," repeated emma mcchesney slowly, "where--shall--we--lunch?" it was a grim little meal, eaten almost in silence. emma mcchesney had made it a rule to use luncheon time as a recess. she played mental tag and hop-scotch, so that, returning to her office refreshed in mind and body, she could attack the afternoon's work with new vigor. and never did she talk or think business. to-day she ate her luncheon with a forced appetite, glanced about with a listlessness far removed from her usual alert interest, and followed jock's attempts at conversation with a polite effort that was more insulting than downright inattention. "dessert, mother?" jock had to say it twice before she heard. "what? oh, no--i think not." the waiter hesitated, coughed discreetly, lifted his eyebrows insinuatingly. "the french pastry's particularly nice to-day, madam. if you'd care to try something? eclair, madam--peach tart--mocha tart--caramel--" emma mcchesney smiled. "it does sound tempting." she glanced at jock. "and we're wearing our gowns so floppy this year that it makes no difference whether one's fat or not." she turned to the waiter. "i never can tell till i see them. bring your pastry tray, will you?" jock mcchesney's finger and thumb came together with a snap. he leaned across the table toward his mother, eyes glowing, lips parted and eager. "there! you've proved my point." "point?" "about advertising. no, don't stop me. don't you see that what applies to pastry applies to petticoats? you didn't think of french pastry until he suggested it to you--advertised it, really. and then you wanted a picture of them. you wanted to know what they looked like before buying. that's all there is to advertising. telling people about a thing, making 'em want it, and showing 'em how it will look when they have it. get me?" emma mcchesney was gazing at jock with a curious, fascinated stare. it was a blank little look, such as we sometimes wear when the mind is working furiously. if the insinuating waiter, presenting the laden tray for her inspection, was startled by the rapt expression which she turned upon the cunningly wrought wares, he was too much a waiter to show it. a pause. "that one," said mrs. mcchesney, pointing to the least ornate. she ate it, down to the last crumb, in a silence that was pregnant with portent. she put down her fork and sat back. "jock, you win. i--i suppose i have fallen out of step. perhaps i've been too busy watching my own feet. t.a. will be back next week. could your office have an advertising plan roughly sketched by that time?" "could they!" his tone was exultant. "watch 'em! hupp's been crazy to make featherlooms famous." "but look here, son. i want a hand in that copy. i know featherlooms better than your sam hupp will ever--" jock shook his head. "they won't stand for that, mother. it never works. the manufacturer always thinks he can write magic stuff because he knows his own product. but he never can. you see, he knows too much. that's it. no perspective." "we'll see," said emma mcchesney curtly. so it was that ten days later the first important conference in the interests of the featherloom petticoat company's advertising campaign was called. but in those ten days of hurried preparation a little silent tragedy had come about. for the first time in her brave, sunny life emma mcchesney had lost faith in herself. and with such malicious humor does fate work her will that she chose sam hupp's new dictagraph as the instrument with which to prick the bubble of mrs. mcchesney's self-confidence. sam hupp, one of the copy-writing marvels of the berg, shriner firm, had a trick of forgetting to shut off certain necessary currents when he paused in his dictation to throw in conversational asides. the old and experienced stenographers, had learned to look out for that, and to eliminate from their typewritten letters certain irrelevant and sometimes irreverent asides which sam hupp evidently had addressed to his pipe, or the office boy, and not intended for the tube of the all-devouring dictagraph. there was a new and nervous little stenographer in the outer office, and she had not been warned of this. "we think very highly of the plan you suggest," sam hupp had said into the dictagraph's mouthpiece. "in fact, in one of your valuable copy suggestions you--" without changing his tone he glanced over his shoulder at his colleague, hopper, who was listening and approving. "... let the old girl think the idea is her own. she's virtually the head of that concern, and they've spoiled her. successful, and used to being kowtowed to. doesn't know her notions of copy are ten years behind the advertising game--" and went on with his letter again. after which he left the office to play golf. and the little blond numbskull in the outer office dutifully took down what the instrument had to say, word for word, marked it, "dictated, but not read," signed neat initials, and with a sigh went on with the rest of her sheaf of letters. emma mcchesney read the letter next morning. she read it down to the end, and then again. the two readings were punctuated with a little gasp, such as we give when an icy douche is suddenly turned upon us. and that was all. a week later an intent little group formed a ragged circle about the big table in the private office of bartholomew berg, head of the berg, shriner advertising company. bartholomew berg himself, massive, watchful, taciturn, managing to give an impression of power by his very silence, sat at one side of the long table. just across from him a sleek-haired stenographer bent over her note book, jotting down every word, that the conference might make business history. hopper, at one end of the room, studied his shoe heel intently. he was unbelievably boyish looking to command the fabulous salary reported to be his. advertising men, mentioning his name, pulled a figurative forelock as they did so. near mrs. mcchesney sat sam hupp, he of the lightning brain and the sure-fire copy. emma mcchesney, strangely silent, kept her eyes intent on the faces of the others. t.a. buck, interested, enthusiastic, but somewhat uncertain, glanced now and then at his silent business partner, found no satisfaction in her set face, and glanced away again. grace galt, unbelievably young and pretty to have won a place for herself in that conference of business people, smiled in secret at jock mcchesney's evident struggle to conceal his elation at being present at this, his first staff meeting. the conference had lasted one hour now. in that time featherloom petticoats had been picked to pieces, bit by bit, from hem to waist-band. nothing had been left untouched. every angle had come under the keen vision of the advertising experts--the comfort of the garment, its durability, style, cheapness, service. which to emphasize? "h--m, novelty campaign, in my opinion," said hopper, breaking one of his long silences. "there's nothing new in petticoats themselves, you know. you've got to give 'em a new angle." "yep," agreed hupp. "start out with a feature skirt. might illustrate with one of those freak drawings they're crazy about now--slinky figure, you know, hollow-chested, one foot trailing, and all that. they're crazy, but they do attract attention, no doubt of that." bartholomew berg turned his head slowly. "what's your opinion, mrs. mcchesney?" he asked. "i--i'm afraid i haven't any," said emma mcchesney listlessly. t.a. buck stared at her in dismay and amazement. "how about you, mr. buck?" "why--i--er--of course this advertising game's new to me. i'm really leaving it in your hands. i really thought that mrs. mcchesney's idea was to make a point of the fact that these petticoats were not freak petticoats, but skirts for the everyday women. she gave me what i thought was a splendid argument a week ago." he turned to her helplessly. mrs. mcchesney sat silent. bartholomew berg leaned forward a little and smiled one of his rare smiles. "won't you tell us, mrs. mcchesney? we'd all like to hear what you have to say." mrs. mcchesney looked down at her hands. then she looked up, and addressed what she had to say straight to bartholomew berg. "i--simply didn't want to interfere in this business. i know nothing about it, really. of course, i do know featherloom petticoats. i know all about them. it seemed to me that just because the newspapers and magazines were full of pictures showing spectacular creatures in impossible attitudes wearing tango tea skirts, we are apt to forget that those types form only a thin upper crust, and that down beneath there are millions and millions of regular, everyday women doing regular everyday things in regular everyday clothes. women who wash on monday, and iron on tuesday, and bake one-egg cakes, and who have to hurry home to get supper when they go down-town in the afternoon. they're the kind who go to market every morning, and take the baby along in the go-cart, and they're not wearing crêpe de chine tango petticoats to do it in, either. they're wearing skirts with a drawstring in the back, and a label in the band, guaranteed to last one year. those are the people i'd like to reach, and hold." "hm!" said hopper, from his corner, cryptically. bartholomew berg looked at emma mcchesney admiringly. "sounds reasonable and logical," he said. sam hupp sat up with a jerk. "it does sound reasonable," he said briskly. "but it isn't. pardon me, won't you, mrs. mcchesney? but you must realize that this is an extravagant age. the very workingmen's wives have caught the spending fever. the time is past when you can attract people to your goods with the promise of durability and wear. they don't expect goods to wear. they'd resent it if they did. they get tired of an article before it's worn out. they're looking for novelties. they'd rather get two months' wear out of a skirt that's slashed a new way, than a year's wear out of one that looks like the sort that mother used to make." mrs. mcchesney, her cheeks very pink, her eyes very bright, subsided into silence. in silence she sat throughout the rest of the conference. in silence she descended in the elevator with t.a. buck, and in silence she stepped into his waiting car. t.a. buck eyed her worriedly. "well?" he said. then, as mrs. mcchesney shrugged noncommittal shoulders, "tell me, how do you feel about it?" emma mcchesney turned to face him, breathing rather quickly. "the last time i felt as i do just now was when jock was a baby. he took sick, and the doctors were puzzled. they thought it might be something wrong with his spine. they had a consultation--five of them--with the poor little chap on the bed, naked. they wouldn't let me in, so i listened in the hallway, pressed against the door with my face to the crack. they prodded him, and poked him, and worked his little legs and arms, and every time he cried i prayed, and wept, and clawed the door with my fingers, and called them beasts and torturers and begged them to let me in, though i wasn't conscious that i was doing those things--at the time. i didn't know what they were doing to him, though they said it was all for his good, and they were only trying to help him. but i only knew that i wanted to rush in, and grab him up in my arms, and run away with him--run, and run, and run." she stopped, lips trembling, eyes suspiciously bright. "and that's the way i felt in there--this afternoon." t.a. buck reached up and patted her shoulder. "don't, old girl! it's going to work out splendidly, i'm sure. after all, those chaps do know best." "they may know best, but they don't know featherlooms," retorted emma mcchesney. "true. but perhaps what jock said when he walked with us to the elevator was pretty nearly right. you know he said we were criticising their copy the way a plumber would criticise the parthenon--so busy finding fault with the lack of drains that we failed to see the beauty of the architecture." "t.a.," said emma mcchesney solemnly, "t.a., we're getting old." "old! you! i! ha!" "you may 'ha!' all you like. but do you know what they thought of us in there? they thought we were a couple of fogies, and they humored us, that's what they did. i'll tell you, t.a., when the time comes for me to give jock up to some little pink-faced girl i'll do it, and smile if it kills me. but to hand my featherlooms over to a lot of cold-blooded experts who--well--" she paused, biting her lip. "we'll see, emma; we'll see." they did see. the featherloom petticoat campaign was launched with a great splash. it sailed serenely into the sea of national business. then suddenly something seemed to go wrong with its engines. it began to wobble and showed a decided list to port. jock, who at the beginning was so puffed with pride that his gold fountain pen threatened to burst the confines of his very modishly tight vest, lost two degrees of pompousness a day, and his attitude toward his unreproachful mother was almost humble. a dozen times a week t.a. buck would stroll casually into mrs. mcchesney's office. "think it's going to take hold?" he would ask. "our men say the dealers have laid in, but the public doesn't seem to be tearing itself limb from limb to get to our stuff." emma mcchesney would smile, and shrug noncommittal shoulders. when it became very painfully apparent that it wasn't "taking hold," t.a. buck, after asking the same question, now worn and frayed with asking, broke out, crossly: "well, really, i don't mind the shrug, but i do wish you wouldn't smile. after all, you know, this campaign is costing us money--real money, and large chunks of it. it's very evident that we shouldn't have tried to make a national campaign of this thing." whereupon mrs. mcchesney's smile grew into a laugh. "forgive me, t.a. i'm not laughing at you. i'm laughing because--well, i can't tell you why. it's a woman's reason, and you wouldn't think it a reason at all. for that matter, i suppose it isn't, but--anyway, i've got something to tell you. the fault of this campaign has been the copy. it was perfectly good advertising, but it left the public cold. when they read those ads they might have been impressed with the charm of the garment, but it didn't fill their breasts with any wild longing to possess one. it didn't make the women feel unhappy until they had one of those skirts hanging on the third hook in their closet. the only kind of advertising that is advertising is the kind that makes the reader say, 'i'll have one of those.'" t.a. buck threw out helpless hands. "what are we going to do about it?" "do? i've already done it." "done what?" "written the kind of copy that i think featherlooms ought to have. i just took my knowledge of featherlooms, plus what i knew about human nature, sprinkled in a handful of good humor and sincerity, and they're going to feed it to the public. it's the same recipe that i used to use in selling featherlooms on the road. it used to go by word of mouth. i don't see why it shouldn't go on paper. it isn't classic advertising. it isn't scientific. it isn't even what they call psychological, i suppose. but it's human. and it's going to reach that great, big, solid, safe, spot-cash mass known as the middle class. of course my copy may be wrong. it may not go, after all, but--" but it did go. it didn't go with a rush, or a bang. it went slowly, surely, hand over hand, but it went, and it kept on going. and watching it climb and take hold there came back to emma mcchesney's eye the old sparkle, to her step the old buoyancy, to her voice the old delightful ring. and now, when t.a. buck strolled into her office of a morning, with his, "it's taking hold, mrs. mack," she would dimple like a girl as she laughed back at him-- "with a grip that won't let go." "it looks very much as though we were going to be millionaires in our old age, you and i?" went on buck. emma mcchesney opened her eyes wide. "old!" she mocked, "old! you! i! ha!" iv the man within him they used to do it much more picturesquely. they rode in coats of scarlet, in the crisp, clear morning, to the winding of horns and the baying of hounds, to the thud-thud of hoofs, and the crackle of underbrush. across fresh-plowed fields they went, crashing through forest paths, leaping ditches, taking fences, scrambling up the inclines, pelting down the hillside, helter-skelter, until, panting, wide-eyed, eager, blood-hungry, the hunt closed in at the death. the scarlet coat has sobered down to the somber gray and the snuffy brown of that unromantic garment known as the business suit. the winding horn is become a goblet, and its notes are the tinkle of ice against glass. the baying of hounds has harshened to the squawk of the motor siren. the fresh-plowed field is a blue print, the forest maze a roll of plans and specifications. each fence is a business barrier. every ditch is of a competitor's making, dug craftily so that the clumsy-footed may come a cropper. all the romance is out of it, all the color, all the joy. but two things remain the same: the look in the face of the hunter as he closed in on the fox is the look in the face of him who sees the coveted contract lying ready for the finishing stroke of his pen. and his words are those of the hunter of long ago as, eyes a-gleam, teeth bared, muscles still taut with the tenseness of the chase, he waves the paper high in air and cries, "i've made a killing!" for two years jock mcchesney had watched the field as it swept by in its patient, devious, cruel game of hunt the contract. but he had never been in at the death. those two years had taught him how to ride; to take a fence; to leap a ditch. he had had his awkward bumps, and his clumsy falls. he had lost his way more than once. but he had always groped his way back again, stumblingly, through the dusk. jock mcchesney was the youngest man on the berg, shriner advertising company's big staff of surprisingly young men. so young that the casual glance did not reveal to you the marks that the strain of those two years had left on his boyish face. but the marks were there. nature etches with the most delicate of points. she knows the cunning secret of light and shadow. you scarcely realize that she has been at work. a faint line about the mouth, a fairy tracing at the corners of the eyes, a mere vague touch just at the nostrils--and the thing is done. even emma mcchesney's eyes--those mother-eyes which make the lynx seem a mole--had failed to note the subtle change. then, suddenly, one night, the lines leaped out at her. they were seated at opposite sides of the book-littered library table in the living-room of the cheerful up-town apartment which was the realization of the nightly dream which mrs. emma mcchesney had had in her ten years on the road for the t.a. buck featherloom petticoat company. jock mcchesney's side of the big table was completely covered with the mass of copy-paper, rough sketches, photographs and drawings which make up an advertising lay-out. he was bent over the work, absorbed, intent, his forearms resting on the table. emma mcchesney glanced up from her magazine just as jock bent forward to reach a scrap of paper that had fluttered away. the lamplight fell full on his face. and emma mcchesney saw. the hand that held the magazine fell to her lap. her lips were parted slightly. she sat very quietly, her eyes never leaving the face that frowned so intently over the littered table. the room had been very quiet before--jock busy with his work, his mother interested in her magazine. but this silence was different. there was something electric in it. it was a silence that beats on the brain like a noise. jock mcchesney, bent over his work, heard it, felt it, and, oppressed by it, looked up suddenly. he met those two eyes opposite. "spooks? or is it my godlike beauty which holds you thus? or is my face dirty?" emma mcchesney did not smile. she laid her magazine on the table, face down, and leaned forward, her staring eyes still fixed on her son's face. "look here, young 'un. are you working too hard?" "me? now? this stuff you mean--?" "no; i mean in the last year. are they piling it up on you?" jock laughed a laugh that was nothing less than a failure, so little of real mirth did it contain. "piling it up! lord, no! i wish they would. that's the trouble. they don't give me a chance." "a chance! why, that's not true, son. you've said yourself that there are men who have been in the office three times as long as you have, who never have had the opportunities that they've given you." it was as though she had touched a current that thrilled him to action. he pushed back his chair and stood up, one hand thrust into his pocket, the other passing quickly over his head from brow to nape with a quick, nervous gesture that was new to him. "and why!" he flung out. "why! not because they like the way i part my hair. they don't do business that way up there. it's because i've made good, and those other dubs haven't. that's why. they've let me sit in at the game. but they won't let me take any tricks. i've been an apprentice hand for two years now. i'm tired of it. i want to be in on a killing. i want to taste blood. i want a chance at some of the money--real money." emma mcchesney sat back in her chair and surveyed the angry figure before her with quiet, steady eyes. "i might have known that only one thing could bring those lines into your face, son." she paused a moment. "so you want money as badly as all that, do you?" jock's hand came down with a thwack on the papers before him. "want it! you just bet i want it." "do i know her?" asked emma mcchesney quietly. jock stopped short in his excited pacing up and down the room. "do you know--why, i didn't say there--what makes you think that--?" "when a youngster like you, whose greatest worry has been whether harvard'll hold 'em again this year, with baxter out, begins to howl about not being appreciated in business, and to wear a late fall line of wrinkles where he has been smooth before, i feel justified in saying, 'do i know her?'" "well, it isn't any one--at least, it isn't what you mean you think it is when you say you--" "careful there! you'll trip. never you mind what i mean i think it is when i say. count ten, and then just tell me what you think you mean." jock passed his hand over his head again with that nervous little gesture. then he sat down, a little wearily. he stared moodily down at the pile of papers before him: his mother faced him quietly across the table. "grace galt's getting twice as much as i am," jock broke out, with savage suddenness. "the first year i didn't mind. a fellow gets accustomed, these days, to see women breaking into all the professions and getting away with men-size salaries. but her pay check doubles mine--more than doubles it." "it's been my experience," observed emma mcchesney, "that when a firm condescends to pay a woman twice as much as a man, that means she's worth six times as much." a painful red crept into jock's face. "maybe. two years ago that would have sounded reasonable to me. two years ago, when i walked down broadway at night, a fifty-foot electric sign at forty-second was just an electric sign to me. just part of the town's decoration like the chorus girls, and the midnight theater crowds. now--well, now every blink of every red and yellow globe is crammed full of meaning. i know the power that advertising has; how it influences our manners, and our morals, and our minds, and our health. it regulates the food we eat, and the clothes we wear, and the books we read, and the entertainment we seek. it's colossal, that's what it is! it's--" "keep on like that for another two years, sonny, and no business banquet will be complete without you. the next thing you know you'll be addressing the y.m.c.a. advertising classes on the young man in business." jock laughed a rueful little laugh. "i didn't mean to make a speech. i was just trying to say that i've served my apprenticeship. it hurts a fellow's pride. you can't hold your head up before a girl when you know her salary's twice yours, and you know that she knows it. why look at mrs. hoffman, who's with the dowd agency. of course she's a wonder, even if her face does look like the fifty-eighth variety. she can write copy that lifts a campaign right out of the humdrum class, and makes it luminous. her husband works in a bank somewhere. he earns about as much as mrs. hoffman pays the least of her department subordinates. and he's so subdued that he side-steps when he walks, and they call him the human jelly-fish." emma mcchesney was regarding her son with a little puzzled frown. suddenly she reached out and tapped the topmost of the scribbled sheets strewn the length of jock's side of the table. "what's all this?" jock tipped back his chair and surveyed the clutter before him. "that," said he, "is what is known on the stage as 'the papers.' and it's the real plot of this piece." "m-m-m--i thought so. just favor me with a scenario, will you?" half-grinning, half-serious, jock stuck his thumbs in the armholes of his waistcoat, and began. "scene: offices of the berg, shriner advertising company. time, the present. characters: jock mcchesney, handsome, daring, brilliant--" "suppose you--er--skip the characters, however fascinating, and get to the action." jock mcchesney brought the tipped chair down on all-fours with a thud, and stood up. the grin was gone. he was as serious as he had been in the midst of his tirade of five minutes before. "all right. here it is. and don't blame me if it sounds like cheap melodrama. this stuff," and he waved a hand toward the paper-laden table, "is an advertising campaign plan for the griebler gum company, of st. louis. oh, don't look impressed. the office hasn't handed me any such commission. i just got the idea like a flash, and i've been working it out for the last two weeks. it worked itself out, almost--the way a really scorching idea does, sometimes. this griebler has been advertising for years. you know the griebler gum. but it hasn't been the right sort of advertising. old griebler, the original gum man, had fogy notions about advertising, and as long as he lived they had to keep it down. he died a few months ago--you must have read of it. left a regular mint. ben griebler, the oldest son, started right in to clean out the cobwebs. of course the advertising end of it has come in for its share of the soap and water. he wants to make a clean sweep of it. every advertising firm in the country has been angling for the contract. it's going to be a real one. two-thirds of the crowd have submitted plans. and that's just where my kick comes in. the berg, shriner company makes it a rule never to submit advance plans." "excuse me if i seem a trifle rude," interrupted mrs. mcchesney, "but i'd like to know where you think you've been wronged in this." "right here!" replied jock, and he slapped his pocket, "and here," he pointed to his head. "two spots so vital that they make old achilles's heel seem armor-plated. ben griebler is one of the show-me kind. he wants value received for money expended, and while everybody knows that he has a loving eye on the berg, shriner crowd, he won't sign a thing until he knows what he's getting. a firm's record, standing, staff, equipment, mean nothing to him." "but, jock, i still don't see--" jock gathered up a sheaf of loose papers and brandished them in the air. "this is where i come in. i've got a plan here that will fetch this griebler person. oh, i'm not dreaming. i outlined it for sam hupp, and he was crazy about it. sam hupp had some sort of plan outlined himself. but he said this made his sound as dry as cigars in denver. and you know yourself that sam hupp's copy is so brilliant that he could sell brewery advertising to a temperance magazine." emma mcchesney stood up. she looked a little impatient, and a trifle puzzled. "but why all this talk! i don't get you. take your plan to mr. berg. if it's what you think it is he'll see it quicker than any other human being, and he'll probably fall on your neck and invest you in royal robes and give you a mahogany desk all your own." "oh, what's the good!" retorted jock disgustedly. "this griebler has an appointment at the office to-morrow. he'll be closeted with the old man. they'll call in hupp. but never a plan will they reveal. it's against their code of ethics. ethics! i'm sick of the word. i suppose you'd say i'm lucky to be associated with a firm like that, and i suppose i am. but i wish in the name of all the gods of business that they weren't so bloomin' conservative. ethics! they're all balled up in 'em, like henry james in his style." emma mcchesney came over from her side of the table and stood very close to her son. she laid one hand very lightly on his arm and looked up into the sullen, angry young face. [illustration: "she laid one hand very lightly on his arm and looked up into the sullen, angry young face"] "i've seen older men than you are, jock, and better men, and bigger men, wearing that same look, and for the same reason. every ambitious man or woman in business wears it at one time or another. sooner or later, jock, you'll have your chance at the money end of this game. if you don't care about the thing you call ethics, it'll be sooner. if you do care, it will be later. it rests with you, but it's bound to come, because you've got the stuff in you." "maybe," replied jock the cynical. but his face lost some of its sullenness as he looked down at that earnest, vivid countenance up-turned to his. "maybe. it sounds all right, mother--in the story books. but i'm not quite solid on it. these days it isn't so much what you've got in you that counts as what you can bring out. i know the young man's slogan used to be 'work and wait,' or something pretty like that. but these days they've boiled it down to one word--'produce'!" "the marvel of it is that there aren't more of 'em," observed emma mcchesney sadly. "more what?" "more lines. here,"--she touched his forehead,--"and here,"--she touched his eyes. "lines!" jock swung to face a mirror. "good! i'm so infernally young-looking that no one takes me seriously. it's darned hard trying to convince people you're a captain of finance when you look like an errand boy." from the center of the room mrs. mcchesney watched the boy as he surveyed himself in the glass. and as she gazed there came a frightened look into her eyes. it was gone in a minute, and in its place came a curious little gleam, half amused, half pugnacious. "jock mcchesney, if i thought that you meant half of what you've said to-night about honor, and ethics, and all that, i'd--" "spank me, i suppose," said the young six-footer. "no," and all the humor had fled, "i--jock, i've never said much to you about your father. but i think you know that he was what he was to the day of his death. you were just about eight when i made up my mind that life with him was impossible. i said then--and you were all i had, son--that i'd rather see you dead than to have you turn out to be a son of your father. don't make me remember that wish, jock." two quick steps and his arms were about her. his face was all contrition. "why--mother! i didn't mean--you see this is business, and i'm crazy to make good, and it's such a fight--" "don't i know it?" demanded emma mcchesney. "i guess your mother hasn't been sitting home embroidering lunchcloths these last fifteen years." she lifted her head from the boy's shoulder. "and now, son, considering me, not as your doting mother, but in my business capacity as secretary of the t.a. buck featherloom petticoat company, suppose you reveal to me the inner workings of this plan of yours. i'd like to know if you really are the advertising wizard that you think you are." so it was that long after annie's dinner dishes had ceased to clatter in the kitchen; long after she had put her head in at the door to ask, "aigs 'r cakes for breakfast?" long after those two busy brains should have rested in sleep, the two sat at either side of the light-flooded table, the face of one glowing as he talked, the face of the other sparkling as she listened. and at midnight: "why, you infant wonder!" exclaimed emma mcchesney. at nine o'clock next morning when jock mcchesney entered the offices of the berg, shriner advertising company he carried a flat, compact bundle of papers under his arm encased in protecting covers of pasteboard, and further secured by bands of elastic. this he carried to his desk, deposited in a drawer, and locked the drawer. by eleven o'clock the things which he had predicted the night before had come to pass. a plump little man, with a fussy manner and western clothes had been ushered into bartholomew berg's private office. instinct told him that this was griebler. jock left his desk and strolled up to get the switchboard operator's confirmation of his guess. half an hour later sam hupp hustled by and disappeared into the old man's sanctum. jock fingered the upper left-hand drawer of his desk. the maddening blankness of that closed door! if only he could find some excuse for walking into that room--any old excuse, no matter how wild!--just to get a chance at it-- his telephone rang. he picked up the receiver, his eye on the closed door, his thoughts inside that room. "mr. berg wants to see you right away," came the voice of the switchboard operator. something seemed to give way inside--something in the region of his brain--no, his heart--no, his lungs-- "well, can you beat that!" said jock mcchesney aloud, in a kind of trance of joy. "can--you--beat--that!" then he buttoned the lower button of his coat, shrugged his shoulders with an extra wriggle at the collar (the modern hero's method of girding up his loins), and walked calmly into bartholomew berg's very private office. in the second that elapsed between the opening and the closing of the door jock's glance swept the three men--bartholomew berg, quiet, inscrutable, seated at his great table-desk; griebler, lost in the depths of a great leather chair, smoking fussily and twitching with a hundred little restless, irritating gestures; sam hupp, standing at the opposite side of the room, hands in pockets, attitude argumentative. "this is mr. mcchesney," said bartholomew berg. "mr. griebler, mcchesney." jock came forward, smiling that charming smile of his. "mr. griebler," he said, extending his hand, "this is a great pleasure." "hm!" growled ben griebler, "i didn't know they picked 'em so young." his voice was a piping falsetto that somehow seemed to match his restless little eyes. jock thrust his hands hurriedly into his pockets. he felt his face getting scarlet. "they're--ah--using 'em young this year," said bartholomew berg. his voice sounded bigger, and smoother, and pleasanter than ever in contrast with that other's shrill tone. "i prefer 'em young, myself. you'll never catch mcchesney using 'in the last analysis' to drive home an argument. he has a new idea about every nineteen minutes, and every other one's a good one, and every nineteenth or so's an inspiration." the old man laughed one of his low, chuckling laughs. "hm--that so?" piped ben griebler. "up in my neck of the woods we aren't so long on inspiration. we're just working men, and we wear working clothes--" "oh, now," protested berg, his eyes twinkling, "mcchesney's necktie and socks and handkerchief may form one lovely, blissful color scheme, but that doesn't signify that his advertising schemes are not just as carefully and artistically blended." ben griebler looked shrewdly up at jock through narrowed lids. "maybe. i'll talk to you in a minute, young man--that is--" he turned quickly upon berg--"if that isn't against your crazy principles, too?" "why, not at all," bartholomew berg assured him. "not at all. you do me an injustice." griebler moved up closer to the broad table. the two fell into a low-voiced talk. jock looked rather helplessly around at sam hupp. that alert gentleman was signaling him frantically with head and wagging finger. jock crossed the big room to hupp's side. the two moved off to a window at the far end. "give heed to your unkie," said sam hupp, talking very rapidly, very softly, and out of one corner of his mouth. "this griebler's looking for an advertising manager. he's as pig-headed as a--a--well, as a pig, i suppose. but it's a corking chance, youngster, and the old man's just recommended you--strong. now--" "me--!" exploded jock. "shut up!" hissed hupp. "two or three years with that firm would be the making of you--if you made good, of course. and you could. they want to move their factory here from st. louis within the next few years. now listen. when he talks to you, you play up the keen, alert stuff with a dash of sophistication, see? if you can keep your mouth shut and throw a kind of a canny, i-get-you, look into your eyes, all the better. he's gabby enough for two. try a line of talk that is filled with the fire and enthusiasm of youth, combined with the good judgment and experience of middle age, and you've--" "say, look here," stammered jock. "even if i was warfield enough to do all that, d'you honestly think--me an advertising manager!--with a salary that griebler--" "you nervy little shrimp, go in and win. he'll pay five thousand if he pays a cent. but he wants value for money expended. now i've tipped you off. you make your killing--" "oh, mcchesney!" called bartholomew berg, glancing round. "yes, sir!" said jock, and stood before him in the same moment. "mr. griebler is looking for a competent, enthusiastic, hard-working man as advertising manager. i've spoken to him of you. i know what you can do. mr. griebler might trust my judgment in this, but--" "i'll trust my own judgment," snapped ben griebler. "it's good enough for me." "very well," returned bartholomew berg suavely. "and if you decide to place your advertising future in the hands of the berg, shriner company--" "now look here," interrupted ben griebler again. "i'll tie up with you people when you've shaken something out of your cuffs. i'm not the kind that buys a pig in a poke. we're going to spend money--real money--in this campaign of ours. but i'm not such a come-on as to hand you half a million or so and get a promise in return. i want your plans, and i want 'em in full." a little exclamation broke from sam hupp. he checked it, but not before berg's curiously penetrating pale blue eyes had glanced up at him, and away again. "i've told you, mr. griebler," went on bartholomew berg's patient voice, "just why the thing you insist on is impossible. this firm does not submit advance copy. every business commission that comes to us is given all the skill, and thought, and enthusiasm, and careful planning that this office is capable of. you know our record. this is a business of ideas. and ideas are too precious, too perishable, to spread in the market place for all to see." ben griebler stood up. his cigar waggled furiously between his lips as he talked. "i know something else that don't stand spreading in the market place, berg. and that's money. it's too darned perishable, too." he pointed a stubby finger at jock. "does this fool rule of yours apply to this young fellow, too?" bartholomew berg seemed to grow more patient, more self-contained as the other man's self-control slipped rapidly away. "it goes for every man and woman in this office, mr. griebler. this young chap, mcchesney here, might spend weeks and months building up a comprehensive advertising plan for you. he'd spend those weeks studying your business from every possible angle. perhaps it would be a plan that would require a year of waiting before the actual advertising began to appear. and then you might lose faith in the plan. a waiting game is a hard game to play. some other man's idea, that promised quicker action, might appeal to you. and when it appeared we'd very likely find our own original idea incorporated in--" "say, look here!" squeaked ben griebler, his face dully red. "d'you mean to imply that i'd steal your plan! d'you mean to sit there and tell me to my face--" "mr. griebler, i mean that that thing happens constantly in this business. we're almost powerless to stop it. nothing spreads quicker than a new idea. compared to it a woman's secret is a sealed book." ben griebler removed the cigar from his lips. he was stuttering with anger. with a mingling of despair and boldness jock saw the advantage of that stuttering moment and seized on it. he stepped close to the broad table-desk, resting both hands on it and leaning forward slightly in his eagerness. "mr. berg--i have a plan. mr. hupp can tell you. it came to me when i first heard that the grieblers were going to broaden out. it's a real idea. i'm sure of that. i've worked it out in detail. mr. hupp himself said it--why, i've got the actual copy. and it's new. absolutely. it never--" "trot it out!" shouted ben griebler. "i'd like to see one idea anyway, around this shop." "mcchesney," said bartholomew berg, not raising his voice. his eyes rested on jock with the steady, penetrating gaze that was peculiar to him. more foolhardy men than jock mcchesney had faltered and paused, abashed, under those eyes. "mcchesney, your enthusiasm for your work is causing you to forget one thing that must never be forgotten in this office." jock stepped back. his lower lip was caught between his teeth. at the same moment ben griebler snatched up his hat from the table, clapped it on his head at an absurd angle and, bristling like a fighting cock, confronted the three men. "i've got a couple of rules myself," he cried, "and don't you forget it. when you get a little spare time, you look up st. louis and find out what state it's in. the slogan of that state is my slogan, you bet. if you think i'm going to make you a present of the money that it took my old man fifty years to pile up, then you don't know that griebler is a german name. good day, gents." he stalked to the door. there he turned dramatically and leveled a forefinger at jock. "they've got you roped and tied. but i think you're a comer. if you change your mind, kid, come and see me." the door slammed behind him. "whew!" whistled sam hupp, passing a handkerchief over his bald spot. bartholomew berg reached out with one great capable hand and swept toward him a pile of papers. "oh, well, you can't blame him. advertising has been a scream for so long. griebler doesn't know the difference between advertising, publicity, and bunk. he'll learn. but it'll be an awfully expensive course. now, hupp, let's go over this kalamazoo account. that'll be all, mcchesney." jock turned without a word. he walked quickly through the outer office, into the great main room. there he stopped at the switchboard. "er--miss grimes," he said, smiling charmingly. "where's this mr. griebler, of st. louis, stopping; do you know?" "say, where would he stop?" retorted the wise miss grimes. "look at him! the waldorf, of course." "thanks," said jock, still smiling. and went back to his desk. at five jock left the office. under his arm he carried the flat pasteboard package secured by elastic bands. at five-fifteen he walked swiftly down the famous corridor of the great red stone hotel. the colorful glittering crowd that surged all about him he seemed not to see. he made straight for the main desk with its battalion of clerks. [illustration: "he made straight for the main desk with its battalion of clerks"] "mr. griebler in? mr. ben griebler, st. louis?" the question set in motion the hotel's elaborate system of investigation. at last: "not in." "do you know when he will be in?" that futile question. "can't say. he left no word. do you want to leave your name?" "n-no. would he--does he stop at this desk when he comes in?" he was an unusually urbane hotel clerk. "why, usually they leave their keys and get their mail from the floor clerk. but mr. griebler seems to prefer the main desk." "i'll--wait," said jock. and seated in one of the great thronelike chairs, he waited. he sat there, slim and boyish, while the laughing, chattering crowd swept all about him. if you sit long enough in that foyer you will learn all there is to learn about life. an amazing sight it is--that crowd. baraboo helps swell it, and spokane, and berlin, and budapest, and pekin, and paris, and waco, texas. so varied it is, so cosmopolitan, that if you sit there patiently enough, and watch sharply enough you will even see a chance new yorker. from door to desk jock's eyes swept. the afternoon-tea crowd, in paradise feathers, and furs, and frock coats swam back and forth. he saw it give way to the dinner throng, satin-shod, bejeweled, hurrying through its oysters, swallowing unbelievable numbers of cloudy-amber drinks, and golden-brown drinks, and maroon drinks, then gathering up its furs and rushing theaterwards. he was still sitting there when that crowd, its eight o'clock freshness somewhat sullied, its sparkle a trifle dimmed, swept back for more oysters, more cloudy-amber and golden-brown drinks. at half-hour intervals, then at hourly intervals, the figure in the great chair stirred, rose, and walked to the desk. "has mr. griebler come in?" the supper throng, its laugh a little ribald, its talk a shade high-pitched, drifted towards the street, or was wafted up in elevators. the throng thinned to an occasional group. then these became rarer and rarer. the revolving door admitted one man, or two, perhaps, who lingered not at all in the unaccustomed quiet of the great glittering lobby. the figure of the watcher took on a pathetic droop. the eyelids grew leaden. to open them meant an almost superhuman effort. the stare of the new night clerks grew more and more hostile and suspicious. a grayish pallor had settled down on the boy's face. and those lines of the night before stood out for all to see. in the stillness of the place the big revolving door turned once more, complainingly. for the thousandth time jock's eyes lifted heavily. then they flew wide open. the drooping figure straightened electrically. half a dozen quick steps and jock stood in the pathway of ben griebler who, rather ruffled and untidy, had blown in on the wings of the morning. he stared a moment. "well, what--" "i've been waiting for you here since five o'clock last evening. it will soon be five o'clock again. will you let me show you those plans now?" ben griebler had surveyed jock with the stony calm of the out-of-town visitor who is prepared to show surprise at nothing in new york. "there's nothing like getting an early start," said ben griebler. "come on up to my room." key in hand, he made for the elevator. for an almost imperceptible moment jock paused. then, with a little rush, he followed the short, thick-set figure. "i knew you had it in you, mcchesney. i said you looked like a comer, didn't i?" jock said nothing. he was silent while griebler unlocked his door, turned on the light, fumbled at the windows and shades, picked up the telephone receiver. "what'll you have?" "nothing." jock had cleared the center table and was opening his flat bundle of papers. he drew up two chairs. "let's not waste any time," he said. "i've had a twelve-hour wait for this." he seemed to control the situation. obediently ben griebler hung up the receiver, came over, and took the chair very close to jock. [illustration: "'let's not waste any time,' he said"] "there's nothing artistic about gum," began jock mcchesney; and his manner was that of a man who is sure of himself. "it's a shirt-sleeve product, and it ought to be handled from a shirt-sleeve standpoint. every gum concern in the country has spent thousands on a 'better-than-candy' campaign before it realized that gum is a candy and drug store article, and that no man is going to push a five-cent package of gum at the sacrifice of the sale of an eighty-cent box of candy. but the health note is there, if only you strike it right. now, here's my idea--" at six o'clock ben griebler, his little shrewd eyes sparkling, his voice more squeakily falsetto than ever, surveyed the youngster before him with a certain awe. "this--this thing will actually sell our stuff in europe! no gum concern has ever been able to make the stuff go outside of this country. why, inside of three years every 'arry and 'arriet in england'll be chewing it on bank holidays. i don't know about germany, but--" he pushed back his chair and got up. "well, i'm solid on that. and what i say goes. now i'll tell you what i'll do, kid. i'll take you down to st. louis with me, at a figure that'll make your--" jock looked up. "or if you don't want the berg, shriner crowd to get wise, i'll fix it this way. i'll go over there this morning and tell 'em i've changed my mind, see? the campaign's theirs, see? then i refuse to consider any of their suggestions until i see your plan. and when i see it i fall for it like a ton of bricks. old berg'll never know. he's so darned high-principled--" jock mcchesney stood up. the little drawn pinched look which had made his face so queerly old was gone. his eyes were bright. his face was flushed. "there! you've said it. i didn't realize how raw this deal was until you put it into words for me. i want to thank you. you're right. bartholomew berg is so darned high-principled that two muckers like you and me, groveling around in the dirt, can't even see the tips of the heights to which his ideals have soared. don't stop me. i know i'm talking like a book. but i feel like something that has just been kicked out into the sunshine after having been in jail." "you're tired," said ben griebler. "it's been a strain. something always snaps after a long tension." jock's flat palm came down among the papers with a crack. "you bet something snaps! it has just snapped inside me." he began quietly to gather up the papers in an orderly little way. "what's that for?" inquired griebler, coming forward. "you don't mean--" "i mean that i'm going to go home and square this thing with a lady you've never met. you and she wouldn't get on if you did. you don't talk the same language. then i'm going to have a cold bath, and a hot breakfast. and then, griebler, i'm going to take this stuff to bartholomew berg and tell him the whole nasty business. he'll see the humor of it. but i don't know whether he'll fire me, or make me vice-president of the company. now, if you want to come over and talk to him, fair and square, why come." "ten to one he fires you," remarked griebler, as jock reached the door. "there's only one person i know who's game enough to take you up on that. and it's going to take more nerve to face her at six-thirty than it will to tackle a whole battalion of bartholomew bergs at nine." "well, i guess i can get in a three-hour sleep before--er--" "before what?" said jock mcchesney from the door. ben griebler laughed a little shamefaced laugh. "before i see you at ten, sonny." v the self-starter there is nothing in the sound of the shrill little bell to warn us of the import of its message. more's the pity. it may be that bore whose telephone conversation begins: "well, what do you know to-day?" it may be your lawyer to say you've inherited a million. hence the arrogance of the instrument. it knows its voice will never wilfully go unanswered so long as the element of chance lies concealed within it. mrs. emma mcchesney heard the call of her telephone across the hall. seated in the office of her business partner, t.a. buck, she was fathoms deep in discussion of the t.a. buck featherloom petticoat company's new spring line. the buzzer's insistent voice brought her to her feet, even while she frowned at the interruption. "that'll be baumgartner 'phoning about those silk swatches. back in a minute," said emma mcchesney and hurried across the hall just in time to break the second call. the perfunctory "hello! yes" was followed by a swift change of countenance, a surprised little cry, then,--in quite another tone--"oh, it's you, jock! i wasn't expecting ... no, not too busy to talk to you, you young chump! go on." a moment of silence, while mrs. mcchesney's face smiled and glowed like a girl's as she listened to the voice of her son. then suddenly glow and smile faded. she grew tense. her head, that had been leaning so carelessly on the hand that held the receiver, came up with a jerk. "jock mcchesney!" she gasped, "you--why, you don't mean!--" now, emma mcchesney was not a woman given to jerky conversations, interspersed with exclamation points. her poise and balance had become a proverb in the business world. yet her lips were trembling now. her eyes were very round and bright. her face had flushed, then grown white. her voice shook a little. "yes, of course i am. only, i'm so surprised. yes, i'll be home early. five-thirty at the latest." she hung up the receiver with a little fumbling gesture. her hand dropped to her lap, then came up to her throat a moment, dropped again. she sat staring straight ahead with eyes that saw one thousand miles away. from his office across the hall t.a. buck strolled in casually. "did baumgartner say he'd--?" he stopped as mrs. mcchesney looked up at him. a quick step forward--"what's the matter, emma?" "jock--jock--" "jock! what's happened to the boy?" then, as she still stared at him, her face pitiful, his hand patted her shoulder. "dear girl, tell me." he bent over her, all solicitude. "don't!" said emma mcchesney faintly, and shook off his hand. "your stenographer can see--what will the office think? please--" "oh, darn the stenographer! what's this bad news of jock?" emma mcchesney sat up. she smiled a little nervously and passed her handkerchief across her lips. "i didn't say it was bad, did i? that is, not exactly bad, i suppose." t.a. buck ran a frenzied hand over his head. "my dear child," with careful politeness, "will you please try to be sane? i find you sitting at your desk, staring into space, your face white as a ghost's, your whole appearance that of a person who has received a death-blow. and then you say, 'not exactly bad'!" "it's this," explained emma mcchesney in a hollow tone: "the berg, shriner advertising company has appointed jock manager of their new western branch. they're opening offices in chicago in march." her lower lip quivered. she caught it sharply between her teeth. for one surprised moment t.a. buck stared in silence. then a roar broke from him. "not exactly bad!" he boomed between laughs. "not exactly b--not ex_act_ly, eh?" then he was off again. mrs. mcchesney surveyed him in hurt and dignified silence. then--"well, really, t.a., don't mind me. what you find so exquisitely funny--" "that's the funniest part of it! that you, of all people, shouldn't see the joke. not exactly bad!" he wiped his eyes. "why, do you mean to tell me that because your young cub of a son, by a heaven-sent stroke of good fortune, has landed a job that men twice his age would give their eyeteeth to get, i find you sitting at the telephone looking as if he had run off with annie the cook, or had had a leg cut off!" "i suppose it is funny. only, the joke's on me. that's why i can't see it. it means that i'm losing him." "that's the first selfish word i've ever heard you utter." "oh, don't think i'm not happy at his success. happy! haven't i hoped for it, and worked for it, and prayed for it! haven't i saved for it, and skimped for it! how do you think i could have stood those years on the road if i hadn't kept up courage with the thought that it was all for him? don't i know how narrowly jock escaped being the wrong kind! i'm his mother, but i'm not quite blind. i know he had the making of a first-class cad. i've seen him start off in the wrong direction a hundred times." "if he has turned out a success, it's because you've steered him right. i've watched you make him over. and now, when his big chance has come, you--" "i don't expect you to understand," interrupted emma mcchesney a little wearily. "i know it sounds crazy and unreasonable. there's only one sort of human being who could understand what i mean. that's a woman with a son." she laughed a little shamefacedly. "i'm talking like the chorus of a minor-wail sob song, but it's the truth." "if you feel like that, emma, tell him to stay. the boy wouldn't go if he thought it would make you unhappy." "not go!" cried emma mcchesney sharply. "i'd like to see him dare to refuse it!" "well then, what in--" began buck, bewildered. "don't try to understand it, t.a. it's no use. don't try to poke your finger into the whirligig they call 'woman's sphere.' its mechanism is too complicated. it's the same quirk that makes women pray for daughters and men for sons. it's the same kink that makes women read the marriage and death notices first in a newspaper. it's the same queer strain that causes a mother to lavish the most love on the weakest, wilfullest child. perhaps i wouldn't have loved jock so much if there hadn't been that streak of yellow in him, and if i hadn't had to work so hard to dilute it until now it's only a faint cream color. there ought to be a special prayer for women who are bringing up their sons alone." buck stirred a little uneasily. "i've never heard you talk like this before." "you probably never will again." she swung round to her desk. t.a. buck, strolling toward the door, still wore the puzzled look. "i don't know what makes you take this so seriously. of course, the boy will be a long way off. but then, you've been separated from him before. what's the difference now?" "t.a.," said emma mcchesney solemnly, "jock will be drawing a man-size salary now. something tells me i'll be a grandmother in another two years. girls aren't letting men like jock run around loose. he'll be gobbled up. just you wait." "oh, i don't know," drawled buck mischievously. "you've just said he's a headstrong young cub. he strikes me as the kind who'd raise the dickens if his three-minute egg happened to be five seconds overtime." emma mcchesney swung around in her chair. "look here, t.a. as business partners we've quarreled about everything from silk samples to traveling men, and as friends we've wrangled on every subject from weather to war. i've allowed you to criticise my soul theories, and my new spring hat. but understand that i'm the only living person who has the right to villify my son, jock mcchesney." the telephone buzzed a punctuation to this period. "baumgartner?" inquired buck humbly. she listened a moment, then, over her shoulder, "baumgartner,"--grimly, her hand covering the mouthpiece--"and if he thinks that he can work off a lot of last year's silk swatches on--hello! yes, mrs. mcchesney talking. look here, mr. baumgartner--" and for the time being emma mcchesney, mother, was relegated to the background, while emma mcchesney, secretary of the t.a. buck featherloom petticoat company, held the stage. having said that she would be home at five-thirty. mrs. mcchesney was home at five-thirty, being that kind of a person. jock came in at six, breathless, bright-eyed, eager, and late, being that kind of a person. he found his mother on the floor before the chiffonier in his bedroom, surrounded by piles of pajamas, socks, shirts and collars. [illustration: "he found his mother on the floor ... surrounded by piles of pajamas, socks, shirts and collars"] he swooped down upon her from the doorway. "what do you think of your blue-eyed boy! poor, eh?" emma mcchesney looked up absently. "jock, these medium-weights of yours didn't wear at all, and you paid five dollars for them." "medium-weights! what in--" "you've enough silk socks to last you the rest of your natural life. handkerchiefs, too. but you'll need pajamas." jock stooped, gathered up an armful of miscellaneous undergarments and tossed them into an open drawer. then he shut the drawer with a bang, reached over, grasped his mother firmly under the arms and brought her to her feet with a swing. "we will now consider the question of summer underwear ended. would it bore you too much to touch lightly on the subject of your son's future?" emma mcchesney, tall, straight, handsome, looked up at her son, taller, straighter, handsomer. then she took him by the coat lapels and hugged him. "you were so bursting with your own glory that i couldn't resist teasing you. besides, i had to do something to keep my mind off--off--" "why, blonde dear, you're not--!" "no, i'm not," gulped emma mcchesney. "don't flatter yourself, young 'un. tell me just how it happened. from the beginning." she perched at the side of the bed. jock, hands in pockets, hair a little rumpled, paced excitedly up and down before her as he talked. "there wasn't any beginning. that's the stunning part of it. i just landed right into the middle of it with both feet. i knew they had been planning to start a big western branch. but we all thought they'd pick some big man for it. there are plenty of medium-class dubs to be had. the kind that answers the ad: 'manager wanted, young man, preferably married, able to furnish a- reference.' they're as thick as advertising men in detroit on monday morning. but we knew that this western branch was going to be given an equal chance with the new york office. those big western advertisers like to give their money to western firms if they can. so we figured that they'd pick a real top-notcher--even hopper, or hupp, maybe--and start out with a bang. so when the old man called me into his office this morning i was as unconscious as a babe. well, you know berg. he's as unexpected as a summer shower and twice as full of electricity. "'morning, mcchesney!' he said. 'that a new york necktie you're wearing?' "'strictly,' says i. "'ever try any chicago ties?' "'not from choice. that time my suit case went astray--' "'m-m-m-m, yes.' he drummed his fingers on the table top a couple of times. then--mcchesney, what have you learned about advertising in the last two and a half years?' "i was wise enough as to bartholomew berg to know that he didn't mean any cut-and-dried knowledge. he didn't mean rules of the game. he meant tricks. "'well,' i said, 'i've learned to watch a man's eyes when i'm talking business to him. if the pupils of his eyes dilate he's listening to you, and thinking about what you're saying. when they contract it means that he's only faking interest, even though he's looking straight at you and wearing a rapt expression. his thoughts are miles away.' "'that so?' said berg, and sort of grinned. 'what else?' "'i've learned that one negative argument is worth six positive ones; that it never pays to knock your competitor; that it's wise to fight shy of that joker known as "editorial coöperation."' "'that so?' said berg. 'anything else?' "i made up my mind i could play the game as long as he could. "'i've learned not to lose my temper when i'm in the middle of a white-hot, impassioned business appeal and the office boy bounces in to say to the boss: "mrs. jones is waiting. she says you were going to help her pick out wall paper this morning;" and jones says, "tell her i'll be there in five minutes."' "'sure you've learned that?' said berg. "'sure,' says i. 'and i've learned to let the other fellow think your argument's his own. he likes it. i've learned that the surest kind of copy is the slow, insidious kind, like the featherloom petticoat company's campaign. that was an ideal campaign because it didn't urge and insist that the public buy featherlooms. it just eased the idea to them. it started by sketching a history of the petticoat, beginning with eve's fig leaf and working up. before they knew it they were interested.' "'that so? that campaign was your mother's idea, mcchesney.' you know, mother, he thinks you're a wonder." "so i am," agreed emma mcchesney calmly. "go on." "well, i went on. i told him that i'd learned to stand so that the light wouldn't shine in my client's eyes when i was talking to him. i lost a big order once because the glare from the window irritated the man i was talking to. i told berg all the tricks i'd learned, and some i hadn't thought of till that minute. berg put in a word now and then. i thought he was sort of guying me, as he sometimes does--not unkindly, you know, but in that quiet way he has. finally i stopped for breath, or something, and he said: "'now let me talk a minute, mcchesney. anybody can teach you the essentials of the advertising business, if you've any advertising instinct in you. but it's what you pick up on the side, by your own efforts and out of your own experience, that lifts you out of the scrub class. now i don't think you're an ideal advertising man by any means, mcchesney. you're shy on training and experience, and you've just begun to acquire that golden quality known as balance. i could name a hundred men that are better all-around advertising men than you will ever be. those men have advertising ability that glows steadily and evenly, like a well-banked fire. but you've got the kind of ability that flares up, dies down, flares up. but every flare is a real blaze that lights things red while it lasts, and sends a new glow through the veins of business. you've got personality, and youth, and enthusiasm, and a precious spark of the real thing known as advertising genius. there's no describing it. you know what i mean. also, you know enough about actual advertising not to run an ad for a five-thousand-dollar motor car in the "police gazette." all of which leads up to this question: how would you like to buy your neckties in chicago, mcchesney?' "'chicago!' i blurted. "'we've taken a suite of offices in the new lakeview building on michigan avenue. would you like your office done in mahogany or oak?'" jock came to a full stop before his mother. his cheeks were scarlet. hers were pale. he was breathing quickly. she was very quiet. his eyes glowed. so did hers, but the glow was dimmed by a mist. "mahogany's richer, but make it oak, son. it doesn't show finger-marks so." then, quite suddenly, she stood up, shaking a little, and buried her face in the boy's shoulder. "why--why, mother! don't! don't, blonde. we'll see each other every few weeks. i'll be coming to new york to see the sights, like the rest of the rubes, and i suppose the noise and lights will confuse me so that i'll be glad to get back to the sylvan quiet of chicago. and then you'll run out there, eh? we'll have regular bats, mrs. mack. dinner and the theater and supper! yes?" "yes," said emma mcchesney, in muffled tones that totally lacked enthusiasm. "chicago's really only a suburb of new york, anyway, these days, and--" emma mcchesney's head came up sharply. "look here, son. if you're going to live in chicago i advise you to cut that suburb talk, and sort of forget new york. chicago's quite a village, for an inland settlement, even if it has only two or three million people, and a lake as big as all outdoors. that kind of talk won't elect you to the university club, son." so they talked, all through supper and during the evening. rather, jock talked and his mother listened, interrupting with only an occasional remark when the bubble of the boy's elation seemed to grow too great. quite suddenly jock was silent. after the almost incessant rush of conversation quiet settled down strangely on the two seated there in the living-room with its soft-shaded lamps. jock picked up a magazine, twirled its pages, put it down, strolled into his own room, and back again. "mother," he said suddenly, standing before her, "there was a time when you were afraid i wasn't going to pan out, wasn't there?" "not exactly afraid, dear, just a little doubtful, perhaps." jock smiled a tolerant, forgiving smile. "you see, mother, you didn't understand, that's all. a woman doesn't. i was all right. a man would have realized that. i don't mean, dear, that you haven't always been wonderful, because you have. but it takes a man to understand a man. when you thought i was going bad on your hands i was just developing, that's all. remember that time in chicago, mother?" "yes," answered emma mcchesney, "i remember." "now a man would have understood that that was only kid foolishness. if a fellow's got the stuff in him it'll show up, sooner or later. if i hadn't had it in me i wouldn't be going to chicago as manager of the berg, shriner western office, would i?" "no, dear." jock looked at her. in an instant he was all contrition and tenderness. "you're tired. i've talked you to death, haven't i? lordy, it's midnight! and i want to get down early to-morrow. conference with mr. berg, and hupp." he tried not to sound too important. emma mcchesney took his head between her two hands and kissed him once on the lips, then, standing a-tiptoe, kissed his eyelids with infinite gentleness as you kiss a baby's eyes. then she brought his cheek up against hers. and so they stood for a moment, silently. ten minutes later there came the sound of blithe whistling from jock's room. jock always whistled when he went to bed and when he rose. even these years of living in a new york apartment had not broken him of the habit. it was a cheerful, disconnected whistling, sometimes high and clear, sometimes under the breath, sometimes interspersed with song, and sometimes ceasing altogether at critical moments, say, during shaving, or while bringing the four-in-hand up tight and snug under the collar. it was one of those comfortable little noises that indicate a masculine presence; one of those pleasant, reassuring, man-in-the-house noises that every woman loves. emma mcchesney, putting herself to bed in her room across the hall, found herself listening, brush poised, lips parted, as though to the exquisite strains of celestial music. there came the thump of a shoe on the floor. an interval of quiet. then another thump. without having been conscious of it, emma mcchesney had grown to love the noises that accompanied jock's retiring and rising. his dressing was always signalized by bangings and thumpings. his splashings in the tub were tremendous. his morning plunge could be heard all over the six-room apartment. mrs. mcchesney used to call gayly through the door: "mercy, jock! you sound like a school of whales coming up for air." "you'll think i'm a school of sharks when it comes to breakfast," jock would call back. "tell annie to make enough toast, mum. she's the tightest thing with the toast i ever did--" the rest would be lost in a final surging splash. the noises in the room across the hall had subsided now. she listened more intently. no, a drawer banged. another. then: "hasn't my gray suit come back from the tailor's?" "it was to be sponged, too, you know. he said he'd bring it wednesday. this is tuesday." "oh!" another bang. then: '"night, mother!" "good night, dear." creaking sounds, then a long, comfortable sigh of complete relaxation. emma mcchesney went on with her brushing. she brushed her hair with the usual number of swift even strokes, from the top of the shining head to the waist. she braided her hair into two plaits, gretchen fashion. millions of scanty-locked women would have given all they possessed to look as emma mcchesney looked standing there in kimono and gown. she nicked out the light. then she, too, relaxed upon her pillow with a little sigh. quiet fell on the little apartment. the street noises came up to her, now roaring, now growing faint. emma mcchesney lay there sleepless. she lay flat, hands clasped across her breast, her braids spread out on the pillow. in the darkness of the room the years rolled before her in panorama: her girlhood, her marriage, her unhappiness, jock, the divorce, the struggle for work, those ten years on the road. those ten years on the road! how she had hated them--and loved them. the stuffy trains, the jarring sleepers, the bare little hotel bedrooms, the bad food, the irregular hours, the loneliness, the hard work, the disappointments, the temptations. yes but the fascination of it, the dear friends she had made, the great human lesson of it all! and all for jock. that jock might have good schools, good clothes, good books, good surroundings, happy times. why, jock had been the reason for it all! she had swallowed insult because of jock. she had borne the drudgery because of jock. she had resisted temptation, smiled under hardship, worked, fought, saved, succeeded, all because of jock. and now this pivot about which her whole life had revolved was to be pulled up, wrenched away. over emma mcchesney, lying there in the dark, there swept one of those unreasoning night-fears. the fear of living. the fear of life. a straining of the eyeballs in the dark. the pounding of heart-beats. she sat up in bed. her hands went to her face. her cheeks were burning and her eyes smarted. she felt that she must see jock. at once. just to be near him. to touch him. to take him in her arms, with his head in the hollow of her breast, as she used to when he was a baby. why, he had been a baby only yesterday. and now he was a man. big enough to stand alone, to live alone, to do without her. emma mcchesney flung aside the covers and sprang out of bed. she thrust her feet in slippers, groped for the kimono at the foot of the bed and tiptoed to the door. she listened. no sound from the other room. she stole across the hall, stopped, listened, gained the door. it was open an inch or more. just to be near him, to know that he lay there, sleeping! she pushed the door very, very gently. then she stood in the doorway a moment, scarcely breathing, her head thrust forward, her whole body tense with listening. she could not hear him breathe! she caught her breath again in that unreasoning fear and took a quick step forward. "stop or i'll shoot!" said a voice. simultaneously the light flashed on. emma mcchesney found herself blinking at a determined young man who was steadily pointing a short, chubby, businesslike looking steel affair in her direction. then the hand that held the steel dropped. "what is this, anyway?" demanded jock rather crossly. "a george cohan comedy?" emma mcchesney leaned against the foot of the bed rather weakly. "what did you think--" "what would you think if you heard some one come sneaking along the hall, stopping, listening, sneaking to your door, and then opening it, and listening again, and sneaking in? what would you think it was? how did i know you were going around making social calls at two o'clock in the morning!" suddenly emma mcchesney began to laugh. she leaned over the footboard and laughed hysterically, her head in her arms. jock stared a moment in offended disapproval. then the humor of it caught him, and he buried his head in his pillow to stifle unseemly shrieks. his legs kicked spasmodically beneath the bedclothes. as suddenly as she had begun to laugh mrs. mcchesney became very sober. "stop it, jock! tell me, why weren't you sleeping?" "i don't know," replied jock, as suddenly solemn. "i--sort of--began to think, and i couldn't sleep." "what were you thinking of?" jock looked down at the bedclothes and traced a pattern with one forefinger on the sheet. then he looked up. "thinking of you." "oh!" said emma mcchesney, like a bashful schoolgirl. "of--me!" jock sat up very straight and clasped his hands about his knees. "i got to thinking of what i had said about having made good all alone. that's rot. it isn't so. i was striped with yellow like a stick of lemon candy. if i've got this far, it's all because of you. i've been thinking all along that i was the original electric self-starter, when you've really had to get out and crank me every few miles." into emma mcchesney's face there came a wonderful look. it was the sort of look with which a newly-made angel might receive her crown and harp. it was the look with which a war-hero sees the medal pinned on his breast. it was the look of one who has come into her reward. therefore: "what nonsense!" said emma mcchesney. "if you hadn't had it in you, it wouldn't have come out." "it wasn't in me, in the first place," contested jock stubbornly. "you planted it." from her stand at the foot of the bed she looked at him, her eyes glowing brighter and brighter with that wonderful look. "now see here,"--severely--"i want you to go to sleep. i don't intend to stand here and dispute about your ethical innards at this hour. i'm going to kiss you again." "oh, well, if you must," grinned jock resignedly, and folded her in a bear-hug. to emma mcchesney it seemed that the next three weeks leaped by, not by days, but in one great bound. and the day came when a little, chattering, animated group clustered about the slim young chap who was fumbling with his tickets, glancing at his watch, signaling a porter for his bags, talking, laughing, trying to hide the pangs of departure under a cloak of gayety and badinage that deceived no one. least of all did it deceive the two women who stood there. the eyes of the older woman never left his face. the eyes of the younger one seldom were raised to his, but she saw his every expression. once emma mcchesney's eyes shifted a little so as to include both the girl and the boy in her gaze. grace galt in her blue serge and smart blue hat was worth a separate glance. sam hupp was there, t.a. buck, hopper, who was to be with him in chicago for the first few weeks, three or four of the younger men in the office, frankly envious and heartily congratulatory. they followed him to his train, all laughter and animation. "if this train doesn't go in two minutes," said jock, "i'll get scared and chuck the whole business. funny, but i'm not so keen on going as i was three weeks ago." his eyes rested on the girl in the blue serge and the smart hat. emma mcchesney saw that. she saw that his eyes still rested there as he stood on the observation platform when the train pulled out. the sight did not pain her as she thought it would. there was success in every line of him as he stood there, hat in hand. there was assurance in every breath of him. his clothes, his skin, his clear eyes, his slim body, all were as they should be. he had made a place in the world. he was to be a builder of ideas. she thought of him, and of the girl in blue serge, and of their children-to-be. her breast swelled exultingly. her head came up. this was her handiwork. she looked at it, and found that it was good. "let's strike for the afternoon and call it a holiday," suggested buck. emma mcchesney turned. the train was gone. "t.a., you'll never grow up." "never want to. come on, let's play hooky, emma." "can't. i've a dozen letters to get out, and miss loeb wants to show me that new knicker-bocker design of hers." they drove back to the office almost in silence. emma mcchesney made straight for her desk and began dictating letters with an energy that bordered on fury. at five o'clock she was still working. at five-thirty t.a. buck came in to find her still surrounded by papers, samples, models. "what is this?" he demanded wrathfully, "an all-night session?" emma mcchesney looked up from her desk. her face was flushed, her eyes bright, but there was about her an indefinable air of weariness. "t.a., i'm afraid to go home. i'll rattle around in that empty flat like a hickory nut in a barrel." "we'll have dinner down-town and go to the theater." "no use. i'll have to go home sometime." "now, emma," remonstrated buck, "you'll soon get used to it. think of all the years you got along without him. you were happy, weren't you?" "happy because i had somebody to work for, somebody to plan for, somebody to worry about. when i think of what that flat will be without him--why, just to wake up and know that you can say good morning to some one who cares! that's worth living for, isn't it?" "emma," said t.a. evenly, "do you realize that you are virtually hounding me into asking you to marry me?" "t.a.!" gasped emma mcchesney. "well, you said you wanted somebody to worry about, didn't you?" [illustration: "'well, you said you wanted somebody to worry about, didn't you?'"] a little whimsical smile lay lightly on his lips. "timothy buck, i'm over forty years old." "emma, in another minute i'm going to grow sentimental, and nothing can stop me." she looked down at her hands. there fell a little silence. buck stirred, leaned forward. she looked up from the little watch that ticked away at her wrist. "the minute's up, t.a.," said emma mcchesney. the end version by al haines. the son of the wolf jack london contains the white silence the son of the wolf the men of forty mile in a far country to the man on the trail the priestly prerogative the wisdom of the trail the wife of a king an odyssey of the north the white silence 'carmen won't last more than a couple of days.' mason spat out a chunk of ice and surveyed the poor animal ruefully, then put her foot in his mouth and proceeded to bite out the ice which clustered cruelly between the toes. 'i never saw a dog with a highfalutin' name that ever was worth a rap,' he said, as he concluded his task and shoved her aside. 'they just fade away and die under the responsibility. did ye ever see one go wrong with a sensible name like cassiar, siwash, or husky? no, sir! take a look at shookum here, he's--' snap! the lean brute flashed up, the white teeth just missing mason's throat. 'ye will, will ye?' a shrewd clout behind the ear with the butt of the dog whip stretched the animal in the snow, quivering softly, a yellow slaver dripping from its fangs. 'as i was saying, just look at shookum here--he's got the spirit. bet ye he eats carmen before the week's out.' 'i'll bank another proposition against that,' replied malemute kid, reversing the frozen bread placed before the fire to thaw. 'we'll eat shookum before the trip is over. what d'ye say, ruth?' the indian woman settled the coffee with a piece of ice, glanced from malemute kid to her husband, then at the dogs, but vouchsafed no reply. it was such a palpable truism that none was necessary. two hundred miles of unbroken trail in prospect, with a scant six days' grub for themselves and none for the dogs, could admit no other alternative. the two men and the woman grouped about the fire and began their meager meal. the dogs lay in their harnesses for it was a midday halt, and watched each mouthful enviously. 'no more lunches after today,' said malemute kid. 'and we've got to keep a close eye on the dogs--they're getting vicious. they'd just as soon pull a fellow down as not, if they get a chance.' 'and i was president of an epworth once, and taught in the sunday school.' having irrelevantly delivered himself of this, mason fell into a dreamy contemplation of his steaming moccasins, but was aroused by ruth filling his cup. 'thank god, we've got slathers of tea! i've seen it growing, down in tennessee. what wouldn't i give for a hot corn pone just now! never mind, ruth; you won't starve much longer, nor wear moccasins either.' the woman threw off her gloom at this, and in her eyes welled up a great love for her white lord--the first white man she had ever seen--the first man whom she had known to treat a woman as something better than a mere animal or beast of burden. 'yes, ruth,' continued her husband, having recourse to the macaronic jargon in which it was alone possible for them to understand each other; 'wait till we clean up and pull for the outside. we'll take the white man's canoe and go to the salt water. yes, bad water, rough water--great mountains dance up and down all the time. and so big, so far, so far away--you travel ten sleep, twenty sleep, forty sleep'--he graphically enumerated the days on his fingers--'all the time water, bad water. then you come to great village, plenty people, just the same mosquitoes next summer. wigwams oh, so high--ten, twenty pines. 'hi-yu skookum!' he paused impotently, cast an appealing glance at malemute kid, then laboriously placed the twenty pines, end on end, by sign language. malemute kid smiled with cheery cynicism; but ruth's eyes were wide with wonder, and with pleasure; for she half believed he was joking, and such condescension pleased her poor woman's heart. 'and then you step into a--a box, and pouf! up you go.' he tossed his empty cup in the air by way of illustration and, as he deftly caught it, cried: 'and biff! down you come. oh, great medicine men! you go fort yukon. i go arctic city--twenty-five sleep--big string, all the time--i catch him string--i say, "hello, ruth! how are ye?"--and you say, "is that my good husband?"--and i say, "yes"--and you say, "no can bake good bread, no more soda"--then i say, "look in cache, under flour; good-by." you look and catch plenty soda. all the time you fort yukon, me arctic city. hi-yu medicine man!' ruth smiled so ingenuously at the fairy story that both men burst into laughter. a row among the dogs cut short the wonders of the outside, and by the time the snarling combatants were separated, she had lashed the sleds and all was ready for the trail.--'mush! baldy! hi! mush on!' mason worked his whip smartly and, as the dogs whined low in the traces, broke out the sled with the gee pole. ruth followed with the second team, leaving malemute kid, who had helped her start, to bring up the rear. strong man, brute that he was, capable of felling an ox at a blow, he could not bear to beat the poor animals, but humored them as a dog driver rarely does--nay, almost wept with them in their misery. 'come, mush on there, you poor sore-footed brutes!' he murmured, after several ineffectual attempts to start the load. but his patience was at last rewarded, and though whimpering with pain, they hastened to join their fellows. no more conversation; the toil of the trail will not permit such extravagance. and of all deadening labors, that of the northland trail is the worst. happy is the man who can weather a day's travel at the price of silence, and that on a beaten track. and of all heartbreaking labors, that of breaking trail is the worst. at every step the great webbed shoe sinks till the snow is level with the knee. then up, straight up, the deviation of a fraction of an inch being a certain precursor of disaster, the snowshoe must be lifted till the surface is cleared; then forward, down, and the other foot is raised perpendicularly for the matter of half a yard. he who tries this for the first time, if haply he avoids bringing his shoes in dangerous propinquity and measures not his length on the treacherous footing, will give up exhausted at the end of a hundred yards; he who can keep out of the way of the dogs for a whole day may well crawl into his sleeping bag with a clear conscience and a pride which passeth all understanding; and he who travels twenty sleeps on the long trail is a man whom the gods may envy. the afternoon wore on, and with the awe, born of the white silence, the voiceless travelers bent to their work. nature has many tricks wherewith she convinces man of his finity--the ceaseless flow of the tides, the fury of the storm, the shock of the earthquake, the long roll of heaven's artillery--but the most tremendous, the most stupefying of all, is the passive phase of the white silence. all movement ceases, the sky clears, the heavens are as brass; the slightest whisper seems sacrilege, and man becomes timid, affrighted at the sound of his own voice. sole speck of life journeying across the ghostly wastes of a dead world, he trembles at his audacity, realizes that his is a maggot's life, nothing more. strange thoughts arise unsummoned, and the mystery of all things strives for utterance. and the fear of death, of god, of the universe, comes over him--the hope of the resurrection and the life, the yearning for immortality, the vain striving of the imprisoned essence--it is then, if ever, man walks alone with god. so wore the day away. the river took a great bend, and mason headed his team for the cutoff across the narrow neck of land. but the dogs balked at the high bank. again and again, though ruth and malemute kid were shoving on the sled, they slipped back. then came the concerted effort. the miserable creatures, weak from hunger, exerted their last strength. up--up--the sled poised on the top of the bank; but the leader swung the string of dogs behind him to the right, fouling mason's snowshoes. the result was grievous. mason was whipped off his feet; one of the dogs fell in the traces; and the sled toppled back, dragging everything to the bottom again. slash! the whip fell among the dogs savagely, especially upon the one which had fallen. 'don't,--mason,' entreated malemute kid; 'the poor devil's on its last legs. wait and we'll put my team on.' mason deliberately withheld the whip till the last word had fallen, then out flashed the long lash, completely curling about the offending creature's body. carmen--for it was carmen--cowered in the snow, cried piteously, then rolled over on her side. it was a tragic moment, a pitiful incident of the trail--a dying dog, two comrades in anger. ruth glanced solicitously from man to man. but malemute kid restrained himself, though there was a world of reproach in his eyes, and, bending over the dog, cut the traces. no word was spoken. the teams were doublespanned and the difficulty overcome; the sleds were under way again, the dying dog dragging herself along in the rear. as long as an animal can travel, it is not shot, and this last chance is accorded it--the crawling into camp, if it can, in the hope of a moose being killed. already penitent for his angry action, but too stubborn to make amends, mason toiled on at the head of the cavalcade, little dreaming that danger hovered in the air. the timber clustered thick in the sheltered bottom, and through this they threaded their way. fifty feet or more from the trail towered a lofty pine. for generations it had stood there, and for generations destiny had had this one end in view--perhaps the same had been decreed of mason. he stooped to fasten the loosened thong of his moccasin. the sleds came to a halt, and the dogs lay down in the snow without a whimper. the stillness was weird; not a breath rustled the frost-encrusted forest; the cold and silence of outer space had chilled the heart and smote the trembling lips of nature. a sigh pulsed through the air--they did not seem to actually hear it, but rather felt it, like the premonition of movement in a motionless void. then the great tree, burdened with its weight of years and snow, played its last part in the tragedy of life. he heard the warning crash and attempted to spring up but, almost erect, caught the blow squarely on the shoulder. the sudden danger, the quick death--how often had malemute kid faced it! the pine needles were still quivering as he gave his commands and sprang into action. nor did the indian girl faint or raise her voice in idle wailing, as might many of her white sisters. at his order, she threw her weight on the end of a quickly extemporized handspike, easing the pressure and listening to her husband's groans, while malemute kid attacked the tree with his ax. the steel rang merrily as it bit into the frozen trunk, each stroke being accompanied by a forced, audible respiration, the 'huh!' 'huh!' of the woodsman. at last the kid laid the pitiable thing that was once a man in the snow. but worse than his comrade's pain was the dumb anguish in the woman's face, the blended look of hopeful, hopeless query. little was said; those of the northland are early taught the futility of words and the inestimable value of deeds. with the temperature at sixty-five below zero, a man cannot lie many minutes in the snow and live. so the sled lashings were cut, and the sufferer, rolled in furs, laid on a couch of boughs. before him roared a fire, built of the very wood which wrought the mishap. behind and partially over him was stretched the primitive fly--a piece of canvas, which caught the radiating heat and threw it back and down upon him--a trick which men may know who study physics at the fount. and men who have shared their bed with death know when the call is sounded. mason was terribly crushed. the most cursory examination revealed it. his right arm, leg, and back were broken; his limbs were paralyzed from the hips; and the likelihood of internal injuries was large. an occasional moan was his only sign of life. no hope; nothing to be done. the pitiless night crept slowly by--ruth's portion, the despairing stoicism of her race, and malemute kid adding new lines to his face of bronze. in fact, mason suffered least of all, for he spent his time in eastern tennessee, in the great smoky mountains, living over the scenes of his childhood. and most pathetic was the melody of his long-forgotten southern vernacular, as he raved of swimming holes and coon hunts and watermelon raids. it was as greek to ruth, but the kid understood and felt--felt as only one can feel who has been shut out for years from all that civilization means. morning brought consciousness to the stricken man, and malemute kid bent closer to catch his whispers. 'you remember when we foregathered on the tanana, four years come next ice run? i didn't care so much for her then. it was more like she was pretty, and there was a smack of excitement about it, i think. but d'ye know, i've come to think a heap of her. she's been a good wife to me, always at my shoulder in the pinch. and when it comes to trading, you know there isn't her equal. d'ye recollect the time she shot the moosehorn rapids to pull you and me off that rock, the bullets whipping the water like hailstones?--and the time of the famine at nuklukyeto?--when she raced the ice run to bring the news? 'yes, she's been a good wife to me, better'n that other one. didn't know i'd been there? 'never told you, eh? well, i tried it once, down in the states. that's why i'm here. been raised together, too. i came away to give her a chance for divorce. she got it. 'but that's got nothing to do with ruth. i had thought of cleaning up and pulling for the outside next year--her and i--but it's too late. don't send her back to her people, kid. it's beastly hard for a woman to go back. think of it!--nearly four years on our bacon and beans and flour and dried fruit, and then to go back to her fish and caribou. it's not good for her to have tried our ways, to come to know they're better'n her people's, and then return to them. take care of her, kid, why don't you--but no, you always fought shy of them--and you never told me why you came to this country. be kind to her, and send her back to the states as soon as you can. but fix it so she can come back--liable to get homesick, you know. 'and the youngster--it's drawn us closer, kid. i only hope it is a boy. think of it!--flesh of my flesh, kid. he mustn't stop in this country. and if it's a girl, why, she can't. sell my furs; they'll fetch at least five thousand, and i've got as much more with the company. and handle my interests with yours. i think that bench claim will show up. see that he gets a good schooling; and kid, above all, don't let him come back. this country was not made for white men. 'i'm a gone man, kid. three or four sleeps at the best. you've got to go on. you must go on! remember, it's my wife, it's my boy--o god! i hope it's a boy! you can't stay by me--and i charge you, a dying man, to pull on.' 'give me three days,' pleaded malemute kid. 'you may change for the better; something may turn up.' 'no.' 'just three days.' 'you must pull on.' 'two days.' 'it's my wife and my boy, kid. you would not ask it.' 'one day.' 'no, no! i charge--' 'only one day. we can shave it through on the grub, and i might knock over a moose.' 'no--all right; one day, but not a minute more. and, kid, don't--don't leave me to face it alone. just a shot, one pull on the trigger. you understand. think of it! think of it! flesh of my flesh, and i'll never live to see him! 'send ruth here. i want to say good-by and tell her that she must think of the boy and not wait till i'm dead. she might refuse to go with you if i didn't. goodby, old man; good-by. 'kid! i say--a--sink a hole above the pup, next to the slide. i panned out forty cents on my shovel there. 'and, kid!' he stooped lower to catch the last faint words, the dying man's surrender of his pride. 'i'm sorry--for--you know--carmen.' leaving the girl crying softly over her man, malemute kid slipped into his parka and snowshoes, tucked his rifle under his arm, and crept away into the forest. he was no tyro in the stern sorrows of the northland, but never had he faced so stiff a problem as this. in the abstract, it was a plain, mathematical proposition--three possible lives as against one doomed one. but now he hesitated. for five years, shoulder to shoulder, on the rivers and trails, in the camps and mines, facing death by field and flood and famine, had they knitted the bonds of their comradeship. so close was the tie that he had often been conscious of a vague jealousy of ruth, from the first time she had come between. and now it must be severed by his own hand. though he prayed for a moose, just one moose, all game seemed to have deserted the land, and nightfall found the exhausted man crawling into camp, lighthanded, heavyhearted. an uproar from the dogs and shrill cries from ruth hastened him. bursting into the camp, he saw the girl in the midst of the snarling pack, laying about her with an ax. the dogs had broken the iron rule of their masters and were rushing the grub. he joined the issue with his rifle reversed, and the hoary game of natural selection was played out with all the ruthlessness of its primeval environment. rifle and ax went up and down, hit or missed with monotonous regularity; lithe bodies flashed, with wild eyes and dripping fangs; and man and beast fought for supremacy to the bitterest conclusion. then the beaten brutes crept to the edge of the firelight, licking their wounds, voicing their misery to the stars. the whole stock of dried salmon had been devoured, and perhaps five pounds of flour remained to tide them over two hundred miles of wilderness. ruth returned to her husband, while malemute kid cut up the warm body of one of the dogs, the skull of which had been crushed by the ax. every portion was carefully put away, save the hide and offal, which were cast to his fellows of the moment before. morning brought fresh trouble. the animals were turning on each other. carmen, who still clung to her slender thread of life, was downed by the pack. the lash fell among them unheeded. they cringed and cried under the blows, but refused to scatter till the last wretched bit had disappeared--bones, hide, hair, everything. malemute kid went about his work, listening to mason, who was back in tennessee, delivering tangled discourses and wild exhortations to his brethren of other days. taking advantage of neighboring pines, he worked rapidly, and ruth watched him make a cache similar to those sometimes used by hunters to preserve their meat from the wolverines and dogs. one after the other, he bent the tops of two small pines toward each other and nearly to the ground, making them fast with thongs of moosehide. then he beat the dogs into submission and harnessed them to two of the sleds, loading the same with everything but the furs which enveloped mason. these he wrapped and lashed tightly about him, fastening either end of the robes to the bent pines. a single stroke of his hunting knife would release them and send the body high in the air. ruth had received her husband's last wishes and made no struggle. poor girl, she had learned the lesson of obedience well. from a child, she had bowed, and seen all women bow, to the lords of creation, and it did not seem in the nature of things for woman to resist. the kid permitted her one outburst of grief, as she kissed her husband--her own people had no such custom--then led her to the foremost sled and helped her into her snowshoes. blindly, instinctively, she took the gee pole and whip, and 'mushed' the dogs out on the trail. then he returned to mason, who had fallen into a coma, and long after she was out of sight crouched by the fire, waiting, hoping, praying for his comrade to die. it is not pleasant to be alone with painful thoughts in the white silence. the silence of gloom is merciful, shrouding one as with protection and breathing a thousand intangible sympathies; but the bright white silence, clear and cold, under steely skies, is pitiless. an hour passed--two hours--but the man would not die. at high noon the sun, without raising its rim above the southern horizon, threw a suggestion of fire athwart the heavens, then quickly drew it back. malemute kid roused and dragged himself to his comrade's side. he cast one glance about him. the white silence seemed to sneer, and a great fear came upon him. there was a sharp report; mason swung into his aerial sepulcher, and malemute kid lashed the dogs into a wild gallop as he fled across the snow. the son of the wolf man rarely places a proper valuation upon his womankind, at least not until deprived of them. he has no conception of the subtle atmosphere exhaled by the sex feminine, so long as he bathes in it; but let it be withdrawn, and an ever-growing void begins to manifest itself in his existence, and he becomes hungry, in a vague sort of way, for a something so indefinite that he cannot characterize it. if his comrades have no more experience than himself, they will shake their heads dubiously and dose him with strong physic. but the hunger will continue and become stronger; he will lose interest in the things of his everyday life and wax morbid; and one day, when the emptiness has become unbearable, a revelation will dawn upon him. in the yukon country, when this comes to pass, the man usually provisions a poling boat, if it is summer, and if winter, harnesses his dogs, and heads for the southland. a few months later, supposing him to be possessed of a faith in the country, he returns with a wife to share with him in that faith, and incidentally in his hardships. this but serves to show the innate selfishness of man. it also brings us to the trouble of 'scruff' mackenzie, which occurred in the old days, before the country was stampeded and staked by a tidal-wave of the che-cha-quas, and when the klondike's only claim to notice was its salmon fisheries. 'scruff' mackenzie bore the earmarks of a frontier birth and a frontier life. his face was stamped with twenty-five years of incessant struggle with nature in her wildest moods,--the last two, the wildest and hardest of all, having been spent in groping for the gold which lies in the shadow of the arctic circle. when the yearning sickness came upon him, he was not surprised, for he was a practical man and had seen other men thus stricken. but he showed no sign of his malady, save that he worked harder. all summer he fought mosquitoes and washed the sure-thing bars of the stuart river for a double grubstake. then he floated a raft of houselogs down the yukon to forty mile, and put together as comfortable a cabin as any the camp could boast of. in fact, it showed such cozy promise that many men elected to be his partner and to come and live with him. but he crushed their aspirations with rough speech, peculiar for its strength and brevity, and bought a double supply of grub from the trading-post. as has been noted, 'scruff' mackenzie was a practical man. if he wanted a thing he usually got it, but in doing so, went no farther out of his way than was necessary. though a son of toil and hardship, he was averse to a journey of six hundred miles on the ice, a second of two thousand miles on the ocean, and still a third thousand miles or so to his last stamping-grounds,--all in the mere quest of a wife. life was too short. so he rounded up his dogs, lashed a curious freight to his sled, and faced across the divide whose westward slopes were drained by the head-reaches of the tanana. he was a sturdy traveler, and his wolf-dogs could work harder and travel farther on less grub than any other team in the yukon. three weeks later he strode into a hunting-camp of the upper tanana sticks. they marveled at his temerity; for they had a bad name and had been known to kill white men for as trifling a thing as a sharp ax or a broken rifle. but he went among them single-handed, his bearing being a delicious composite of humility, familiarity, sang-froid, and insolence. it required a deft hand and deep knowledge of the barbaric mind effectually to handle such diverse weapons; but he was a past-master in the art, knowing when to conciliate and when to threaten with jove-like wrath. he first made obeisance to the chief thling-tinneh, presenting him with a couple of pounds of black tea and tobacco, and thereby winning his most cordial regard. then he mingled with the men and maidens, and that night gave a potlach. the snow was beaten down in the form of an oblong, perhaps a hundred feet in length and quarter as many across. down the center a long fire was built, while either side was carpeted with spruce boughs. the lodges were forsaken, and the fivescore or so members of the tribe gave tongue to their folk-chants in honor of their guest. 'scruff' mackenzie's two years had taught him the not many hundred words of their vocabulary, and he had likewise conquered their deep gutturals, their japanese idioms, constructions, and honorific and agglutinative particles. so he made oration after their manner, satisfying their instinctive poetry-love with crude flights of eloquence and metaphorical contortions. after thling-tinneh and the shaman had responded in kind, he made trifling presents to the menfolk, joined in their singing, and proved an expert in their fifty-two-stick gambling game. and they smoked his tobacco and were pleased. but among the younger men there was a defiant attitude, a spirit of braggadocio, easily understood by the raw insinuations of the toothless squaws and the giggling of the maidens. they had known few white men, 'sons of the wolf,' but from those few they had learned strange lessons. nor had 'scruff' mackenzie, for all his seeming carelessness, failed to note these phenomena. in truth, rolled in his sleeping-furs, he thought it all over, thought seriously, and emptied many pipes in mapping out a campaign. one maiden only had caught his fancy,--none other than zarinska, daughter to the chief. in features, form, and poise, answering more nearly to the white man's type of beauty, she was almost an anomaly among her tribal sisters. he would possess her, make her his wife, and name her--ah, he would name her gertrude! having thus decided, he rolled over on his side and dropped off to sleep, a true son of his all-conquering race, a samson among the philistines. it was slow work and a stiff game; but 'scruff' mackenzie maneuvered cunningly, with an unconcern which served to puzzle the sticks. he took great care to impress the men that he was a sure shot and a mighty hunter, and the camp rang with his plaudits when he brought down a moose at six hundred yards. of a night he visited in chief thling-tinneh's lodge of moose and cariboo skins, talking big and dispensing tobacco with a lavish hand. nor did he fail to likewise honor the shaman; for he realized the medicine-man's influence with his people, and was anxious to make of him an ally. but that worthy was high and mighty, refused to be propitiated, and was unerringly marked down as a prospective enemy. though no opening presented for an interview with zarinska, mackenzie stole many a glance to her, giving fair warning of his intent. and well she knew, yet coquettishly surrounded herself with a ring of women whenever the men were away and he had a chance. but he was in no hurry; besides, he knew she could not help but think of him, and a few days of such thought would only better his suit. at last, one night, when he deemed the time to be ripe, he abruptly left the chief's smoky dwelling and hastened to a neighboring lodge. as usual, she sat with squaws and maidens about her, all engaged in sewing moccasins and beadwork. they laughed at his entrance, and badinage, which linked zarinska to him, ran high. but one after the other they were unceremoniously bundled into the outer snow, whence they hurried to spread the tale through all the camp. his cause was well pleaded, in her tongue, for she did not know his, and at the end of two hours he rose to go. 'so zarinska will come to the white man's lodge? good! i go now to have talk with thy father, for he may not be so minded. and i will give him many tokens; but he must not ask too much. if he say no? good! zarinska shall yet come to the white man's lodge.' he had already lifted the skin flap to depart, when a low exclamation brought him back to the girl's side. she brought herself to her knees on the bearskin mat, her face aglow with true eve-light, and shyly unbuckled his heavy belt. he looked down, perplexed, suspicious, his ears alert for the slightest sound without. but her next move disarmed his doubt, and he smiled with pleasure. she took from her sewing bag a moosehide sheath, brave with bright beadwork, fantastically designed. she drew his great hunting-knife, gazed reverently along the keen edge, half tempted to try it with her thumb, and shot it into place in its new home. then she slipped the sheath along the belt to its customary resting-place, just above the hip. for all the world, it was like a scene of olden time,--a lady and her knight. mackenzie drew her up full height and swept her red lips with his moustache, the, to her, foreign caress of the wolf. it was a meeting of the stone age and the steel; but she was none the less a woman, as her crimson cheeks and the luminous softness of her eyes attested. there was a thrill of excitement in the air as 'scruff' mackenzie, a bulky bundle under his arm, threw open the flap of thling-tinneh's tent. children were running about in the open, dragging dry wood to the scene of the potlach, a babble of women's voices was growing in intensity, the young men were consulting in sullen groups, while from the shaman's lodge rose the eerie sounds of an incantation. the chief was alone with his blear-eyed wife, but a glance sufficed to tell mackenzie that the news was already told. so he plunged at once into the business, shifting the beaded sheath prominently to the fore as advertisement of the betrothal. 'o thling-tinneh, mighty chief of the sticks and the land of the tanana, ruler of the salmon and the bear, the moose and the cariboo! the white man is before thee with a great purpose. many moons has his lodge been empty, and he is lonely. and his heart has eaten itself in silence, and grown hungry for a woman to sit beside him in his lodge, to meet him from the hunt with warm fire and good food. he has heard strange things, the patter of baby moccasins and the sound of children's voices. and one night a vision came upon him, and he beheld the raven, who is thy father, the great raven, who is the father of all the sticks. and the raven spake to the lonely white man, saying: "bind thou thy moccasins upon thee, and gird thy snow-shoes on, and lash thy sled with food for many sleeps and fine tokens for the chief thling-tinneh. for thou shalt turn thy face to where the mid-spring sun is wont to sink below the land and journey to this great chief's hunting-grounds. there thou shalt make big presents, and thling-tinneh, who is my son, shall become to thee as a father. in his lodge there is a maiden into whom i breathed the breath of life for thee. this maiden shalt thou take to wife." 'o chief, thus spake the great raven; thus do i lay many presents at thy feet; thus am i come to take thy daughter!' the old man drew his furs about him with crude consciousness of royalty, but delayed reply while a youngster crept in, delivered a quick message to appear before the council, and was gone. 'o white man, whom we have named moose-killer, also known as the wolf, and the son of the wolf! we know thou comest of a mighty race; we are proud to have thee our potlach-guest; but the king-salmon does not mate with the dogsalmon, nor the raven with the wolf.' 'not so!' cried mackenzie. 'the daughters of the raven have i met in the camps of the wolf,--the squaw of mortimer, the squaw of tregidgo, the squaw of barnaby, who came two ice-runs back, and i have heard of other squaws, though my eyes beheld them not.' 'son, your words are true; but it were evil mating, like the water with the sand, like the snow-flake with the sun. but met you one mason and his squaw' no? he came ten ice-runs ago,--the first of all the wolves. and with him there was a mighty man, straight as a willow-shoot, and tall; strong as the bald-faced grizzly, with a heart like the full summer moon; his-' 'oh!' interrupted mackenzie, recognizing the well-known northland figure, 'malemute kid!' 'the same,--a mighty man. but saw you aught of the squaw? she was full sister to zarinska.' 'nay, chief; but i have heard. mason--far, far to the north, a spruce-tree, heavy with years, crushed out his life beneath. but his love was great, and he had much gold. with this, and her boy, she journeyed countless sleeps toward the winter's noonday sun, and there she yet lives,--no biting frost, no snow, no summer's midnight sun, no winter's noonday night.' a second messenger interrupted with imperative summons from the council. as mackenzie threw him into the snow, he caught a glimpse of the swaying forms before the council-fire, heard the deep basses of the men in rhythmic chant, and knew the shaman was fanning the anger of his people. time pressed. he turned upon the chief. 'come! i wish thy child. and now, see! here are tobacco, tea, many cups of sugar, warm blankets, handkerchiefs, both good and large; and here, a true rifle, with many bullets and much powder.' 'nay,' replied the old man, struggling against the great wealth spread before him. 'even now are my people come together. they will not have this marriage.' 'but thou art chief.' 'yet do my young men rage because the wolves have taken their maidens so that they may not marry.' 'listen, o thling-tinneh! ere the night has passed into the day, the wolf shall face his dogs to the mountains of the east and fare forth to the country of the yukon. and zarinska shall break trail for his dogs.' 'and ere the night has gained its middle, my young men may fling to the dogs the flesh of the wolf, and his bones be scattered in the snow till the springtime lay them bare.' it was threat and counter-threat. mackenzie's bronzed face flushed darkly. he raised his voice. the old squaw, who till now had sat an impassive spectator, made to creep by him for the door. the song of the men broke suddenly and there was a hubbub of many voices as he whirled the old woman roughly to her couch of skins. 'again i cry--listen, o thling-tinneh! the wolf dies with teeth fast-locked, and with him there shall sleep ten of thy strongest men,--men who are needed, for the hunting is not begun, and the fishing is not many moons away. and again, of what profit should i die? i know the custom of thy people; thy share of my wealth shall be very small. grant me thy child, and it shall all be thine. and yet again, my brothers will come, and they are many, and their maws are never filled; and the daughters of the raven shall bear children in the lodges of the wolf. my people are greater than thy people. it is destiny. grant, and all this wealth is thine.' moccasins were crunching the snow without. mackenzie threw his rifle to cock, and loosened the twin colts in his belt. 'grant, o chief!' 'and yet will my people say no.' 'grant, and the wealth is thine. then shall i deal with thy people after.' 'the wolf will have it so. i will take his tokens,--but i would warn him.' mackenzie passed over the goods, taking care to clog the rifle's ejector, and capping the bargain with a kaleidoscopic silk kerchief. the shaman and half a dozen young braves entered, but he shouldered boldly among them and passed out. 'pack!' was his laconic greeting to zarinska as he passed her lodge and hurried to harness his dogs. a few minutes later he swept into the council at the head of the team, the woman by his side. he took his place at the upper end of the oblong, by the side of the chief. to his left, a step to the rear, he stationed zarinska, her proper place. besides, the time was ripe for mischief, and there was need to guard his back. on either side, the men crouched to the fire, their voices lifted in a folk-chant out of the forgotten past. full of strange, halting cadences and haunting recurrences, it was not beautiful. 'fearful' may inadequately express it. at the lower end, under the eye of the shaman, danced half a score of women. stern were his reproofs of those who did not wholly abandon themselves to the ecstasy of the rite. half hidden in their heavy masses of raven hair, all dishevelled and falling to their waists, they slowly swayed to and fro, their forms rippling to an ever-changing rhythm. it was a weird scene; an anachronism. to the south, the nineteenth century was reeling off the few years of its last decade; here flourished man primeval, a shade removed from the prehistoric cave-dweller, forgotten fragment of the elder world. the tawny wolf-dogs sat between their skin-clad masters or fought for room, the firelight cast backward from their red eyes and dripping fangs. the woods, in ghostly shroud, slept on unheeding. the white silence, for the moment driven to the rimming forest, seemed ever crushing inward; the stars danced with great leaps, as is their wont in the time of the great cold; while the spirits of the pole trailed their robes of glory athwart the heavens. 'scruff' mackenzie dimly realized the wild grandeur of the setting as his eyes ranged down the fur-fringed sides in quest of missing faces. they rested for a moment on a newborn babe, suckling at its mother's naked breast. it was forty below,--seven and odd degrees of frost. he thought of the tender women of his own race and smiled grimly. yet from the loins of some such tender woman had he sprung with a kingly inheritance,--an inheritance which gave to him and his dominance over the land and sea, over the animals and the peoples of all the zones. single-handed against fivescore, girt by the arctic winter, far from his own, he felt the prompting of his heritage, the desire to possess, the wild danger--love, the thrill of battle, the power to conquer or to die. the singing and the dancing ceased, and the shaman flared up in rude eloquence. through the sinuosities of their vast mythology, he worked cunningly upon the credulity of his people. the case was strong. opposing the creative principles as embodied in the crow and the raven, he stigmatized mackenzie as the wolf, the fighting and the destructive principle. not only was the combat of these forces spiritual, but men fought, each to his totem. they were the children of jelchs, the raven, the promethean fire-bringer; mackenzie was the child of the wolf, or in other words, the devil. for them to bring a truce to this perpetual warfare, to marry their daughters to the arch-enemy, were treason and blasphemy of the highest order. no phrase was harsh nor figure vile enough in branding mackenzie as a sneaking interloper and emissary of satan. there was a subdued, savage roar in the deep chests of his listeners as he took the swing of his peroration. 'aye, my brothers, jelchs is all-powerful! did he not bring heaven-borne fire that we might be warm? did he not draw the sun, moon, and stars, from their holes that we might see? did he not teach us that we might fight the spirits of famine and of frost? but now jelchs is angry with his children, and they are grown to a handful, and he will not help. 'for they have forgotten him, and done evil things, and trod bad trails, and taken his enemies into their lodges to sit by their fires. and the raven is sorrowful at the wickedness of his children; but when they shall rise up and show they have come back, he will come out of the darkness to aid them. o brothers! the fire-bringer has whispered messages to thy shaman; the same shall ye hear. let the young men take the young women to their lodges; let them fly at the throat of the wolf; let them be undying in their enmity! then shall their women become fruitful and they shall multiply into a mighty people! and the raven shall lead great tribes of their fathers and their fathers' fathers from out of the north; and they shall beat back the wolves till they are as last year's campfires; and they shall again come to rule over all the land! 'tis the message of jelchs, the raven.' this foreshadowing of the messiah's coming brought a hoarse howl from the sticks as they leaped to their feet. mackenzie slipped the thumbs of his mittens and waited. there was a clamor for the 'fox,' not to be stilled till one of the young men stepped forward to speak. 'brothers! the shaman has spoken wisely. the wolves have taken our women, and our men are childless. we are grown to a handful. the wolves have taken our warm furs and given for them evil spirits which dwell in bottles, and clothes which come not from the beaver or the lynx, but are made from the grass. and they are not warm, and our men die of strange sicknesses. i, the fox, have taken no woman to wife; and why? twice have the maidens which pleased me gone to the camps of the wolf. even now have i laid by skins of the beaver, of the moose, of the cariboo, that i might win favor in the eyes of thling-tinneh, that i might marry zarinska, his daughter. even now are her snow-shoes bound to her feet, ready to break trail for the dogs of the wolf. nor do i speak for myself alone. as i have done, so has the bear. he, too, had fain been the father of her children, and many skins has he cured thereto. i speak for all the young men who know not wives. the wolves are ever hungry. always do they take the choice meat at the killing. to the ravens are left the leavings. 'there is gugkla,' he cried, brutally pointing out one of the women, who was a cripple. 'her legs are bent like the ribs of a birch canoe. she cannot gather wood nor carry the meat of the hunters. did the wolves choose her?' 'ai! ai!' vociferated his tribesmen. 'there is moyri, whose eyes are crossed by the evil spirit. even the babes are affrighted when they gaze upon her, and it is said the bald-face gives her the trail. 'was she chosen?' again the cruel applause rang out. 'and there sits pischet. she does not hearken to my words. never has she heard the cry of the chit-chat, the voice of her husband, the babble of her child. 'she lives in the white silence. cared the wolves aught for her? no! theirs is the choice of the kill; ours is the leavings. 'brothers, it shall not be! no more shall the wolves slink among our campfires. the time is come.' a great streamer of fire, the aurora borealis, purple, green, and yellow, shot across the zenith, bridging horizon to horizon. with head thrown back and arms extended, he swayed to his climax. 'behold! the spirits of our fathers have arisen and great deeds are afoot this night!' he stepped back, and another young man somewhat diffidently came forward, pushed on by his comrades. he towered a full head above them, his broad chest defiantly bared to the frost. he swung tentatively from one foot to the other. words halted upon his tongue, and he was ill at ease. his face was horrible to look upon, for it had at one time been half torn away by some terrific blow. at last he struck his breast with his clenched fist, drawing sound as from a drum, and his voice rumbled forth as does the surf from an ocean cavern. 'i am the bear,--the silver-tip and the son of the silver-tip! when my voice was yet as a girl's, i slew the lynx, the moose, and the cariboo; when it whistled like the wolverines from under a cache, i crossed the mountains of the south and slew three of the white rivers; when it became as the roar of the chinook, i met the bald-faced grizzly, but gave no trail.' at this he paused, his hand significantly sweeping across his hideous scars. 'i am not as the fox. my tongue is frozen like the river. i cannot make great talk. my words are few. the fox says great deeds are afoot this night. good! talk flows from his tongue like the freshets of the spring, but he is chary of deeds. 'this night shall i do battle with the wolf. i shall slay him, and zarinska shall sit by my fire. the bear has spoken.' though pandemonium raged about him, 'scruff' mackenzie held his ground. aware how useless was the rifle at close quarters, he slipped both holsters to the fore, ready for action, and drew his mittens till his hands were barely shielded by the elbow gauntlets. he knew there was no hope in attack en masse, but true to his boast, was prepared to die with teeth fast-locked. but the bear restrained his comrades, beating back the more impetuous with his terrible fist. as the tumult began to die away, mackenzie shot a glance in the direction of zarinska. it was a superb picture. she was leaning forward on her snow-shoes, lips apart and nostrils quivering, like a tigress about to spring. her great black eyes were fixed upon her tribesmen, in fear and defiance. so extreme the tension, she had forgotten to breathe. with one hand pressed spasmodically against her breast and the other as tightly gripped about the dog-whip, she was as turned to stone. even as he looked, relief came to her. her muscles loosened; with a heavy sigh she settled back, giving him a look of more than love--of worship. thling-tinneh was trying to speak, but his people drowned his voice. then mackenzie strode forward. the fox opened his mouth to a piercing yell, but so savagely did mackenzie whirl upon him that he shrank back, his larynx all agurgle with suppressed sound. his discomfiture was greeted with roars of laughter, and served to soothe his fellows to a listening mood. 'brothers! the white man, whom ye have chosen to call the wolf, came among you with fair words. he was not like the innuit; he spoke not lies. he came as a friend, as one who would be a brother. but your men have had their say, and the time for soft words is past. 'first, i will tell you that the shaman has an evil tongue and is a false prophet, that the messages he spake are not those of the fire-bringer. his ears are locked to the voice of the raven, and out of his own head he weaves cunning fancies, and he has made fools of you. he has no power. 'when the dogs were killed and eaten, and your stomachs were heavy with untanned hide and strips of moccasins; when the old men died, and the old women died, and the babes at the dry dugs of the mothers died; when the land was dark, and ye perished as do the salmon in the fall; aye, when the famine was upon you, did the shaman bring reward to your hunters? did the shaman put meat in your bellies? again i say, the shaman is without power. thus i spit upon his face!' though taken aback by the sacrilege, there was no uproar. some of the women were even frightened, but among the men there was an uplifting, as though in preparation or anticipation of the miracle. all eyes were turned upon the two central figures. the priest realized the crucial moment, felt his power tottering, opened his mouth in denunciation, but fled backward before the truculent advance, upraised fist, and flashing eyes, of mackenzie. he sneered and resumed. 'was i stricken dead? did the lightning burn me? did the stars fall from the sky and crush me? pish! i have done with the dog. now will i tell you of my people, who are the mightiest of all the peoples, who rule in all the lands. at first we hunt as i hunt, alone. 'after that we hunt in packs; and at last, like the cariboo-run, we sweep across all the land. 'those whom we take into our lodges live; those who will not come die. zarinska is a comely maiden, full and strong, fit to become the mother of wolves. though i die, such shall she become; for my brothers are many, and they will follow the scent of my dogs. 'listen to the law of the wolf: whoso taketh the life of one wolf, the forfeit shall ten of his people pay. in many lands has the price been paid; in many lands shall it yet be paid. 'now will i deal with the fox and the bear. it seems they have cast eyes upon the maiden. so? behold, i have bought her! thling-tinneh leans upon the rifle; the goods of purchase are by his fire. yet will i be fair to the young men. to the fox, whose tongue is dry with many words, will i give of tobacco five long plugs. 'thus will his mouth be wetted that he may make much noise in the council. but to the bear, of whom i am well proud, will i give of blankets two; of flour, twenty cups; of tobacco, double that of the fox; and if he fare with me over the mountains of the east, then will i give him a rifle, mate to thling-tinneh's. if not? good! the wolf is weary of speech. yet once again will he say the law: whoso taketh the life of one wolf, the forfeit shall ten of his people pay.' mackenzie smiled as he stepped back to his old position, but at heart he was full of trouble. the night was yet dark. the girl came to his side, and he listened closely as she told of the bear's battle-tricks with the knife. the decision was for war. in a trice, scores of moccasins were widening the space of beaten snow by the fire. there was much chatter about the seeming defeat of the shaman; some averred he had but withheld his power, while others conned past events and agreed with the wolf. the bear came to the center of the battle-ground, a long naked hunting-knife of russian make in his hand. the fox called attention to mackenzie's revolvers; so he stripped his belt, buckling it about zarinska, into whose hands he also entrusted his rifle. she shook her head that she could not shoot,--small chance had a woman to handle such precious things. 'then, if danger come by my back, cry aloud, "my husband!" no; thus, "my husband!"' he laughed as she repeated it, pinched her cheek, and reentered the circle. not only in reach and stature had the bear the advantage of him, but his blade was longer by a good two inches. 'scruff' mackenzie had looked into the eyes of men before, and he knew it was a man who stood against him; yet he quickened to the glint of light on the steel, to the dominant pulse of his race. time and again he was forced to the edge of the fire or the deep snow, and time and again, with the foot tactics of the pugilist, he worked back to the center. not a voice was lifted in encouragement, while his antagonist was heartened with applause, suggestions, and warnings. but his teeth only shut the tighter as the knives clashed together, and he thrust or eluded with a coolness born of conscious strength. at first he felt compassion for his enemy; but this fled before the primal instinct of life, which in turn gave way to the lust of slaughter. the ten thousand years of culture fell from him, and he was a cave-dweller, doing battle for his female. twice he pricked the bear, getting away unscathed; but the third time caught, and to save himself, free hands closed on fighting hands, and they came together. then did he realize the tremendous strength of his opponent. his muscles were knotted in painful lumps, and cords and tendons threatened to snap with the strain; yet nearer and nearer came the russian steel. he tried to break away, but only weakened himself. the fur-clad circle closed in, certain of and anxious to see the final stroke. but with wrestler's trick, swinging partly to the side, he struck at his adversary with his head. involuntarily the bear leaned back, disturbing his center of gravity. simultaneous with this, mackenzie tripped properly and threw his whole weight forward, hurling him clear through the circle into the deep snow. the bear floundered out and came back full tilt. 'o my husband!' zarinska's voice rang out, vibrant with danger. to the twang of a bow-string, mackenzie swept low to the ground, and a bonebarbed arrow passed over him into the breast of the bear, whose momentum carried him over his crouching foe. the next instant mackenzie was up and about. the bear lay motionless, but across the fire was the shaman, drawing a second arrow. mackenzie's knife leaped short in the air. he caught the heavy blade by the point. there was a flash of light as it spanned the fire. then the shaman, the hilt alone appearing without his throat, swayed and pitched forward into the glowing embers. click! click!--the fox had possessed himself of thling-tinneh's rifle and was vainly trying to throw a shell into place. but he dropped it at the sound of mackenzie's laughter. 'so the fox has not learned the way of the plaything? he is yet a woman. 'come! bring it, that i may show thee!' the fox hesitated. 'come, i say!' he slouched forward like a beaten cur. 'thus, and thus; so the thing is done.' a shell flew into place and the trigger was at cock as mackenzie brought it to shoulder. 'the fox has said great deeds were afoot this night, and he spoke true. there have been great deeds, yet least among them were those of the fox. is he still intent to take zarinska to his lodge? is he minded to tread the trail already broken by the shaman and the bear? 'no? good!' mackenzie turned contemptuously and drew his knife from the priest's throat. 'are any of the young men so minded? if so, the wolf will take them by two and three till none are left. no? good! thling-tinneh, i now give thee this rifle a second time. if, in the days to come, thou shouldst journey to the country of the yukon, know thou that there shall always be a place and much food by the fire of the wolf. the night is now passing into the day. i go, but i may come again. and for the last time, remember the law of the wolf!' he was supernatural in their sight as he rejoined zarinska. she took her place at the head of the team, and the dogs swung into motion. a few moments later they were swallowed up by the ghostly forest. till now mackenzie had waited; he slipped into his snow-shoes to follow. 'has the wolf forgotten the five long plugs?' mackenzie turned upon the fox angrily; then the humor of it struck him. 'i will give thee one short plug.' 'as the wolf sees fit,' meekly responded the fox, stretching out his hand. the men of forty mile when big jim belden ventured the apparently innocuous proposition that mush-ice was 'rather pecooliar,' he little dreamed of what it would lead to. neither did lon mcfane, when he affirmed that anchor-ice was even more so; nor did bettles, as he instantly disagreed, declaring the very existence of such a form to be a bugaboo. 'an' ye'd be tellin' me this,' cried lon, 'after the years ye've spint in the land! an' we atin' out the same pot this many's the day!' 'but the thing's agin reasin,' insisted bettles. 'look you, water's warmer than ice--' 'an' little the difference, once ye break through.' 'still it's warmer, because it ain't froze. an' you say it freezes on the bottom?' 'only the anchor-ice, david, only the anchor-ice. an' have ye niver drifted along, the water clear as glass, whin suddin, belike a cloud over the sun, the mushy-ice comes bubblin' up an' up till from bank to bank an' bind to bind it's drapin' the river like a first snowfall?' 'unh, hunh! more'n once when i took a doze at the steering-oar. but it allus come out the nighest side-channel, an' not bubblin' up an' up.' 'but with niver a wink at the helm?' 'no; nor you. it's agin reason. i'll leave it to any man!' bettles appealed to the circle about the stove, but the fight was on between himself and lon mcfane. 'reason or no reason, it's the truth i'm tellin' ye. last fall, a year gone, 'twas sitka charley and meself saw the sight, droppin' down the riffle ye'll remember below fort reliance. an' regular fall weather it was--the glint o' the sun on the golden larch an' the quakin' aspens; an' the glister of light on ivery ripple; an' beyand, the winter an' the blue haze of the north comin' down hand in hand. it's well ye know the same, with a fringe to the river an' the ice formin' thick in the eddies--an' a snap an' sparkle to the air, an' ye a-feelin' it through all yer blood, a-takin' new lease of life with ivery suck of it. 'tis then, me boy, the world grows small an' the wandtherlust lays ye by the heels. 'but it's meself as wandthers. as i was sayin', we a-paddlin', with niver a sign of ice, barrin' that by the eddies, when the injun lifts his paddle an' sings out, "lon mcfane! look ye below!" so have i heard, but niver thought to see! as ye know, sitka charley, like meself, niver drew first breath in the land; so the sight was new. then we drifted, with a head over ayther side, peerin' down through the sparkly water. for the world like the days i spint with the pearlers, watchin' the coral banks a-growin' the same as so many gardens under the sea. there it was, the anchor-ice, clingin' an' clusterin' to ivery rock, after the manner of the white coral. 'but the best of the sight was to come. just after clearin' the tail of the riffle, the water turns quick the color of milk, an' the top of it in wee circles, as when the graylin' rise in the spring, or there's a splatter of wet from the sky. 'twas the anchor-ice comin' up. to the right, to the lift, as far as iver a man cud see, the water was covered with the same. an' like so much porridge it was, slickin' along the bark of the canoe, stickin' like glue to the paddles. it's many's the time i shot the self-same riffle before, and it's many's the time after, but niver a wink of the same have i seen. 'twas the sight of a lifetime.' 'do tell!' dryly commented bettles. 'd'ye think i'd b'lieve such a yarn? i'd ruther say the glister of light'd gone to your eyes, and the snap of the air to your tongue.' ''twas me own eyes that beheld it, an' if sitka charley was here, he'd be the lad to back me.' 'but facts is facts, an' they ain't no gettin' round 'em. it ain't in the nature of things for the water furtherest away from the air to freeze first.' 'but me own eyes-' 'don't git het up over it,' admonished bettles, as the quick celtic anger began to mount. 'then yer not after belavin' me?' 'sence you're so blamed forehanded about it, no; i'd b'lieve nature first, and facts.' 'is it the lie ye'd be givin' me?' threatened lon. 'ye'd better be askin' that siwash wife of yours. i'll lave it to her, for the truth i spake.' bettles flared up in sudden wrath. the irishman had unwittingly wounded him; for his wife was the half-breed daughter of a russian fur-trader, married to him in the greek mission of nulato, a thousand miles or so down the yukon, thus being of much higher caste than the common siwash, or native, wife. it was a mere northland nuance, which none but the northland adventurer may understand. 'i reckon you kin take it that way,' was his deliberate affirmation. the next instant lon mcfane had stretched him on the floor, the circle was broken up, and half a dozen men had stepped between. bettles came to his feet, wiping the blood from his mouth. 'it hain't new, this takin' and payin' of blows, and don't you never think but that this will be squared.' 'an' niver in me life did i take the lie from mortal man,' was the retort courteous. 'an' it's an avil day i'll not be to hand, waitin' an' willin' to help ye lift yer debts, barrin' no manner of way.' 'still got that - ?' lon nodded. 'but you'd better git a more likely caliber. mine'll rip holes through you the size of walnuts.' 'niver fear; it's me own slugs smell their way with soft noses, an' they'll spread like flapjacks against the coming out beyand. an' when'll i have the pleasure of waitin' on ye? the waterhole's a strikin' locality.' ''tain't bad. jest be there in an hour, and you won't set long on my coming.' both men mittened and left the post, their ears closed to the remonstrances of their comrades. it was such a little thing; yet with such men, little things, nourished by quick tempers and stubborn natures, soon blossomed into big things. besides, the art of burning to bedrock still lay in the womb of the future, and the men of forty-mile, shut in by the long arctic winter, grew high-stomached with overeating and enforced idleness, and became as irritable as do the bees in the fall of the year when the hives are overstocked with honey. there was no law in the land. the mounted police was also a thing of the future. each man measured an offense, and meted out the punishment inasmuch as it affected himself. rarely had combined action been necessary, and never in all the dreary history of the camp had the eighth article of the decalogue been violated. big jim belden called an impromptu meeting. scruff mackenzie was placed as temporary chairman, and a messenger dispatched to solicit father roubeau's good offices. their position was paradoxical, and they knew it. by the right of might could they interfere to prevent the duel; yet such action, while in direct line with their wishes, went counter to their opinions. while their rough-hewn, obsolete ethics recognized the individual prerogative of wiping out blow with blow, they could not bear to think of two good comrades, such as bettles and mcfane, meeting in deadly battle. deeming the man who would not fight on provocation a dastard, when brought to the test it seemed wrong that he should fight. but a scurry of moccasins and loud cries, rounded off with a pistol-shot, interrupted the discussion. then the storm-doors opened and malemute kid entered, a smoking colt's in his hand, and a merry light in his eye. 'i got him.' he replaced the empty shell, and added, 'your dog, scruff.' 'yellow fang?' mackenzie asked. 'no; the lop-eared one.' 'the devil! nothing the matter with him.' 'come out and take a look.' 'that's all right after all. buess he's got 'em, too. yellow fang came back this morning and took a chunk out of him, and came near to making a widower of me. made a rush for zarinska, but she whisked her skirts in his face and escaped with the loss of the same and a good roll in the snow. then he took to the woods again. hope he don't come back. lost any yourself?' 'one--the best one of the pack--shookum. started amuck this morning, but didn't get very far. ran foul of sitka charley's team, and they scattered him all over the street. and now two of them are loose, and raging mad; so you see he got his work in. the dog census will be small in the spring if we don't do something.' 'and the man census, too.' 'how's that? who's in trouble now?' 'oh, bettles and lon mcfane had an argument, and they'll be down by the waterhole in a few minutes to settle it.' the incident was repeated for his benefit, and malemute kid, accustomed to an obedience which his fellow men never failed to render, took charge of the affair. his quickly formulated plan was explained, and they promised to follow his lead implicitly. 'so you see,' he concluded, 'we do not actually take away their privilege of fighting; and yet i don't believe they'll fight when they see the beauty of the scheme. life's a game and men the gamblers. they'll stake their whole pile on the one chance in a thousand. 'take away that one chance, and--they won't play.' he turned to the man in charge of the post. 'storekeeper, weight out three fathoms of your best half-inch manila. 'we'll establish a precedent which will last the men of forty-mile to the end of time,' he prophesied. then he coiled the rope about his arm and led his followers out of doors, just in time to meet the principals. 'what danged right'd he to fetch my wife in?' thundered bettles to the soothing overtures of a friend. ''twa'n't called for,' he concluded decisively. ''twa'n't called for,' he reiterated again and again, pacing up and down and waiting for lon mcfane. and lon mcfane--his face was hot and tongue rapid as he flaunted insurrection in the face of the church. 'then, father,' he cried, 'it's with an aisy heart i'll roll in me flamy blankets, the broad of me back on a bed of coals. niver shall it be said that lon mcfane took a lie 'twixt the teeth without iver liftin' a hand! an' i'll not ask a blessin'. the years have been wild, but it's the heart was in the right place.' 'but it's not the heart, lon,' interposed father roubeau; 'it's pride that bids you forth to slay your fellow man.' 'yer frinch,' lon replied. and then, turning to leave him, 'an' will ye say a mass if the luck is against me?' but the priest smiled, thrust his moccasined feet to the fore, and went out upon the white breast of the silent river. a packed trail, the width of a sixteen-inch sled, led out to the waterhole. on either side lay the deep, soft snow. the men trod in single file, without conversation; and the black-stoled priest in their midst gave to the function the solemn aspect of a funeral. it was a warm winter's day for forty-mile--a day in which the sky, filled with heaviness, drew closer to the earth, and the mercury sought the unwonted level of twenty below. but there was no cheer in the warmth. there was little air in the upper strata, and the clouds hung motionless, giving sullen promise of an early snowfall. and the earth, unresponsive, made no preparation, content in its hibernation. when the waterhole was reached, bettles, having evidently reviewed the quarrel during the silent walk, burst out in a final ''twa'n't called for,' while lon mcfane kept grim silence. indignation so choked him that he could not speak. yet deep down, whenever their own wrongs were not uppermost, both men wondered at their comrades. they had expected opposition, and this tacit acquiescence hurt them. it seemed more was due them from the men they had been so close with, and they felt a vague sense of wrong, rebelling at the thought of so many of their brothers coming out, as on a gala occasion, without one word of protest, to see them shoot each other down. it appeared their worth had diminished in the eyes of the community. the proceedings puzzled them. 'back to back, david. an' will it be fifty paces to the man, or double the quantity?' 'fifty,' was the sanguinary reply, grunted out, yet sharply cut. but the new manila, not prominently displayed, but casually coiled about malemute kid's arm, caught the quick eye of the irishman, and thrilled him with a suspicious fear. 'an' what are ye doin' with the rope?' 'hurry up!' malemute kid glanced at his watch. 'i've a batch of bread in the cabin, and i don't want it to fall. besides, my feet are getting cold.' the rest of the men manifested their impatience in various suggestive ways. 'but the rope, kid' it's bran' new, an' sure yer bread's not that heavy it needs raisin' with the like of that?' bettles by this time had faced around. father roubeau, the humor of the situation just dawning on him, hid a smile behind his mittened hand. 'no, lon; this rope was made for a man.' malemute kid could be very impressive on occasion. 'what man?' bettles was becoming aware of a personal interest. 'the other man.' 'an' which is the one ye'd mane by that?' 'listen, lon--and you, too, bettles! we've been talking this little trouble of yours over, and we've come to one conclusion. we know we have no right to stop your fighting-' 'true for ye, me lad!' 'and we're not going to. but this much we can do, and shall do--make this the only duel in the history of forty-mile, set an example for every che-cha-qua that comes up or down the yukon. the man who escapes killing shall be hanged to the nearest tree. now, go ahead!' lon smiled dubiously, then his face lighted up. 'pace her off, david--fifty paces, wheel, an' niver a cease firin' till a lad's down for good. 'tis their hearts'll niver let them do the deed, an' it's well ye should know it for a true yankee bluff.' he started off with a pleased grin on his face, but malemute kid halted him. 'lon! it's a long while since you first knew me?' 'many's the day.' 'and you, bettles?' 'five year next june high water.' 'and have you once, in all that time, known me to break my word' or heard of me breaking it?' both men shook their heads, striving to fathom what lay beyond. 'well, then, what do you think of a promise made by me?' 'as good as your bond,' from bettles. 'the thing to safely sling yer hopes of heaven by,' promptly endorsed lon mcfane. 'listen! i, malemute kid, give you my word--and you know what that means that the man who is not shot stretches rope within ten minutes after the shooting.' he stepped back as pilate might have done after washing his hands. a pause and a silence came over the men of forty-mile. the sky drew still closer, sending down a crystal flight of frost--little geometric designs, perfect, evanescent as a breath, yet destined to exist till the returning sun had covered half its northern journey. both men had led forlorn hopes in their time--led with a curse or a jest on their tongues, and in their souls an unswerving faith in the god of chance. but that merciful deity had been shut out from the present deal. they studied the face of malemute kid, but they studied as one might the sphinx. as the quiet minutes passed, a feeling that speech was incumbent on them began to grow. at last the howl of a wolf-dog cracked the silence from the direction of forty-mile. the weird sound swelled with all the pathos of a breaking heart, then died away in a long-drawn sob. 'well i be danged!' bettles turned up the collar of his mackinaw jacket and stared about him helplessly. 'it's a gloryus game yer runnin', kid,' cried lon mcfane. 'all the percentage of the house an' niver a bit to the man that's buckin'. the devil himself'd niver tackle such a cinch--and damned if i do.' there were chuckles, throttled in gurgling throats, and winks brushed away with the frost which rimed the eyelashes, as the men climbed the ice-notched bank and started across the street to the post. but the long howl had drawn nearer, invested with a new note of menace. a woman screamed round the corner. there was a cry of, 'here he comes!' then an indian boy, at the head of half a dozen frightened dogs, racing with death, dashed into the crowd. and behind came yellow fang, a bristle of hair and a flash of gray. everybody but the yankee fled. the indian boy had tripped and fallen. bettles stopped long enough to grip him by the slack of his furs, then headed for a pile of cordwood already occupied by a number of his comrades. yellow fang, doubling after one of the dogs, came leaping back. the fleeing animal, free of the rabies, but crazed with fright, whipped bettles off his feet and flashed on up the street. malemute kid took a flying shot at yellow fang. the mad dog whirled a half airspring, came down on his back, then, with a single leap, covered half the distance between himself and bettles. but the fatal spring was intercepted. lon mcfane leaped from the woodpile, countering him in midair. over they rolled, lon holding him by the throat at arm's length, blinking under the fetid slaver which sprayed his face. then bettles, revolver in hand and coolly waiting a chance, settled the combat. ''twas a square game, kid,' lon remarked, rising to his feet and shaking the snow from out his sleeves; 'with a fair percentage to meself that bucked it.' that night, while lon mcfane sought the forgiving arms of the church in the direction of father roubeau's cabin, malemute kid talked long to little purpose. 'but would you,' persisted mackenzie, 'supposing they had fought?' 'have i ever broken my word?' 'no; but that isn't the point. answer the question. would you?' malemute kid straightened up. 'scruff, i've been asking myself that question ever since, and--' 'well?' 'well, as yet, i haven't found the answer.' in a far country when a man journeys into a far country, he must be prepared to forget many of the things he has learned, and to acquire such customs as are inherent with existence in the new land; he must abandon the old ideals and the old gods, and oftentimes he must reverse the very codes by which his conduct has hitherto been shaped. to those who have the protean faculty of adaptability, the novelty of such change may even be a source of pleasure; but to those who happen to be hardened to the ruts in which they were created, the pressure of the altered environment is unbearable, and they chafe in body and in spirit under the new restrictions which they do not understand. this chafing is bound to act and react, producing divers evils and leading to various misfortunes. it were better for the man who cannot fit himself to the new groove to return to his own country; if he delay too long, he will surely die. the man who turns his back upon the comforts of an elder civilization, to face the savage youth, the primordial simplicity of the north, may estimate success at an inverse ratio to the quantity and quality of his hopelessly fixed habits. he will soon discover, if he be a fit candidate, that the material habits are the less important. the exchange of such things as a dainty menu for rough fare, of the stiff leather shoe for the soft, shapeless moccasin, of the feather bed for a couch in the snow, is after all a very easy matter. but his pinch will come in learning properly to shape his mind's attitude toward all things, and especially toward his fellow man. for the courtesies of ordinary life, he must substitute unselfishness, forbearance, and tolerance. thus, and thus only, can he gain that pearl of great price--true comradeship. he must not say 'thank you'; he must mean it without opening his mouth, and prove it by responding in kind. in short, he must substitute the deed for the word, the spirit for the letter. when the world rang with the tale of arctic gold, and the lure of the north gripped the heartstrings of men, carter weatherbee threw up his snug clerkship, turned the half of his savings over to his wife, and with the remainder bought an outfit. there was no romance in his nature--the bondage of commerce had crushed all that; he was simply tired of the ceaseless grind, and wished to risk great hazards in view of corresponding returns. like many another fool, disdaining the old trails used by the northland pioneers for a score of years, he hurried to edmonton in the spring of the year; and there, unluckily for his soul's welfare, he allied himself with a party of men. there was nothing unusual about this party, except its plans. even its goal, like that of all the other parties, was the klondike. but the route it had mapped out to attain that goal took away the breath of the hardiest native, born and bred to the vicissitudes of the northwest. even jacques baptiste, born of a chippewa woman and a renegade voyageur (having raised his first whimpers in a deerskin lodge north of the sixty-fifth parallel, and had the same hushed by blissful sucks of raw tallow), was surprised. though he sold his services to them and agreed to travel even to the never-opening ice, he shook his head ominously whenever his advice was asked. percy cuthfert's evil star must have been in the ascendant, for he, too, joined this company of argonauts. he was an ordinary man, with a bank account as deep as his culture, which is saying a good deal. he had no reason to embark on such a venture--no reason in the world save that he suffered from an abnormal development of sentimentality. he mistook this for the true spirit of romance and adventure. many another man has done the like, and made as fatal a mistake. the first break-up of spring found the party following the ice-run of elk river. it was an imposing fleet, for the outfit was large, and they were accompanied by a disreputable contingent of half-breed voyageurs with their women and children. day in and day out, they labored with the bateaux and canoes, fought mosquitoes and other kindred pests, or sweated and swore at the portages. severe toil like this lays a man naked to the very roots of his soul, and ere lake athabasca was lost in the south, each member of the party had hoisted his true colors. the two shirks and chronic grumblers were carter weatherbee and percy cuthfert. the whole party complained less of its aches and pains than did either of them. not once did they volunteer for the thousand and one petty duties of the camp. a bucket of water to be brought, an extra armful of wood to be chopped, the dishes to be washed and wiped, a search to be made through the outfit for some suddenly indispensable article--and these two effete scions of civilization discovered sprains or blisters requiring instant attention. they were the first to turn in at night, with score of tasks yet undone; the last to turn out in the morning, when the start should be in readiness before the breakfast was begun. they were the first to fall to at mealtime, the last to have a hand in the cooking; the first to dive for a slim delicacy, the last to discover they had added to their own another man's share. if they toiled at the oars, they slyly cut the water at each stroke and allowed the boat's momentum to float up the blade. they thought nobody noticed; but their comrades swore under their breaths and grew to hate them, while jacques baptiste sneered openly and damned them from morning till night. but jacques baptiste was no gentleman. at the great slave, hudson bay dogs were purchased, and the fleet sank to the guards with its added burden of dried fish and pemican. then canoe and bateau answered to the swift current of the mackenzie, and they plunged into the great barren ground. every likely-looking 'feeder' was prospected, but the elusive 'pay-dirt' danced ever to the north. at the great bear, overcome by the common dread of the unknown lands, their voyageurs began to desert, and fort of good hope saw the last and bravest bending to the towlines as they bucked the current down which they had so treacherously glided. jacques baptiste alone remained. had he not sworn to travel even to the never-opening ice? the lying charts, compiled in main from hearsay, were now constantly consulted. and they felt the need of hurry, for the sun had already passed its northern solstice and was leading the winter south again. skirting the shores of the bay, where the mackenzie disembogues into the arctic ocean, they entered the mouth of the little peel river. then began the arduous up-stream toil, and the two incapables fared worse than ever. towline and pole, paddle and tumpline, rapids and portages--such tortures served to give the one a deep disgust for great hazards, and printed for the other a fiery text on the true romance of adventure. one day they waxed mutinous, and being vilely cursed by jacques baptiste, turned, as worms sometimes will. but the half-breed thrashed the twain, and sent them, bruised and bleeding, about their work. it was the first time either had been manhandled. abandoning their river craft at the headwaters of the little peel, they consumed the rest of the summer in the great portage over the mackenzie watershed to the west rat. this little stream fed the porcupine, which in turn joined the yukon where that mighty highway of the north countermarches on the arctic circle. but they had lost in the race with winter, and one day they tied their rafts to the thick eddy-ice and hurried their goods ashore. that night the river jammed and broke several times; the following morning it had fallen asleep for good. 'we can't be more'n four hundred miles from the yukon,' concluded sloper, multiplying his thumb nails by the scale of the map. the council, in which the two incapables had whined to excellent disadvantage, was drawing to a close. 'hudson bay post, long time ago. no use um now.' jacques baptiste's father had made the trip for the fur company in the old days, incidentally marking the trail with a couple of frozen toes. sufferin' cracky!' cried another of the party. 'no whites?' 'nary white,' sloper sententiously affirmed; 'but it's only five hundred more up the yukon to dawson. call it a rough thousand from here.' weatherbee and cuthfert groaned in chorus. 'how long'll that take, baptiste?' the half-breed figured for a moment. 'workum like hell, no man play out, ten--twenty--forty--fifty days. um babies come' (designating the incapables), 'no can tell. mebbe when hell freeze over; mebbe not then.' the manufacture of snowshoes and moccasins ceased. somebody called the name of an absent member, who came out of an ancient cabin at the edge of the campfire and joined them. the cabin was one of the many mysteries which lurk in the vast recesses of the north. built when and by whom, no man could tell. two graves in the open, piled high with stones, perhaps contained the secret of those early wanderers. but whose hand had piled the stones? the moment had come. jacques baptiste paused in the fitting of a harness and pinned the struggling dog in the snow. the cook made mute protest for delay, threw a handful of bacon into a noisy pot of beans, then came to attention. sloper rose to his feet. his body was a ludicrous contrast to the healthy physiques of the incapables. yellow and weak, fleeing from a south american fever-hole, he had not broken his flight across the zones, and was still able to toil with men. his weight was probably ninety pounds, with the heavy hunting knife thrown in, and his grizzled hair told of a prime which had ceased to be. the fresh young muscles of either weatherbee or cuthfert were equal to ten times the endeavor of his; yet he could walk them into the earth in a day's journey. and all this day he had whipped his stronger comrades into venturing a thousand miles of the stiffest hardship man can conceive. he was the incarnation of the unrest of his race, and the old teutonic stubbornness, dashed with the quick grasp and action of the yankee, held the flesh in the bondage of the spirit. 'all those in favor of going on with the dogs as soon as the ice sets, say ay.' 'ay!' rang out eight voices--voices destined to string a trail of oaths along many a hundred miles of pain. 'contrary minded?' 'no!' for the first time the incapables were united without some compromise of personal interests. 'and what are you going to do about it?' weatherbee added belligerently. 'majority rule! majority rule!' clamored the rest of the party. 'i know the expedition is liable to fall through if you don't come,' sloper replied sweetly; 'but i guess, if we try real hard, we can manage to do without you. what do you say, boys?' the sentiment was cheered to the echo. 'but i say, you know,' cuthfert ventured apprehensively; 'what's a chap like me to do?' 'ain't you coming with us.' 'no--o.' 'then do as you damn well please. we won't have nothing to say.' 'kind o' calkilate yuh might settle it with that canoodlin' pardner of yourn,' suggested a heavy-going westerner from the dakotas, at the same time pointing out weatherbee. 'he'll be shore to ask yuh what yur a-goin' to do when it comes to cookin' an' gatherin' the wood.' 'then we'll consider it all arranged,' concluded sloper. 'we'll pull out tomorrow, if we camp within five miles--just to get everything in running order and remember if we've forgotten anything.' the sleds groaned by on their steel-shod runners, and the dogs strained low in the harnesses in which they were born to die. jacques baptiste paused by the side of sloper to get a last glimpse of the cabin. the smoke curled up pathetically from the yukon stovepipe. the two incapables were watching them from the doorway. sloper laid his hand on the other's shoulder. 'jacques baptiste, did you ever hear of the kilkenny cats?' the half-breed shook his head. 'well, my friend and good comrade, the kilkenny cats fought till neither hide, nor hair, nor yowl, was left. you understand?--till nothing was left. very good. now, these two men don't like work. they'll be all alone in that cabin all winter--a mighty long, dark winter. kilkenny cats--well?' the frenchman in baptiste shrugged his shoulders, but the indian in him was silent. nevertheless, it was an eloquent shrug, pregnant with prophecy. things prospered in the little cabin at first. the rough badinage of their comrades had made weatherbee and cuthfert conscious of the mutual responsibility which had devolved upon them; besides, there was not so much work after all for two healthy men. and the removal of the cruel whiphand, or in other words the bulldozing half-breed, had brought with it a joyous reaction. at first, each strove to outdo the other, and they performed petty tasks with an unction which would have opened the eyes of their comrades who were now wearing out bodies and souls on the long trail. all care was banished. the forest, which shouldered in upon them from three sides, was an inexhaustible woodyard. a few yards from their door slept the porcupine, and a hole through its winter robe formed a bubbling spring of water, crystal clear and painfully cold. but they soon grew to find fault with even that. the hole would persist in freezing up, and thus gave them many a miserable hour of ice-chopping. the unknown builders of the cabin had extended the sidelogs so as to support a cache at the rear. in this was stored the bulk of the party's provisions. food there was, without stint, for three times the men who were fated to live upon it. but the most of it was the kind which built up brawn and sinew, but did not tickle the palate. true, there was sugar in plenty for two ordinary men; but these two were little else than children. they early discovered the virtues of hot water judiciously saturated with sugar, and they prodigally swam their flapjacks and soaked their crusts in the rich, white syrup. then coffee and tea, and especially the dried fruits, made disastrous inroads upon it. the first words they had were over the sugar question. and it is a really serious thing when two men, wholly dependent upon each other for company, begin to quarrel. weatherbee loved to discourse blatantly on politics, while cuthfert, who had been prone to clip his coupons and let the commonwealth jog on as best it might, either ignored the subject or delivered himself of startling epigrams. but the clerk was too obtuse to appreciate the clever shaping of thought, and this waste of ammunition irritated cuthfert. he had been used to blinding people by his brilliancy, and it worked him quite a hardship, this loss of an audience. he felt personally aggrieved and unconsciously held his muttonhead companion responsible for it. save existence, they had nothing in common--came in touch on no single point. weatherbee was a clerk who had known naught but clerking all his life; cuthfert was a master of arts, a dabbler in oils, and had written not a little. the one was a lower-class man who considered himself a gentleman, and the other was a gentleman who knew himself to be such. from this it may be remarked that a man can be a gentleman without possessing the first instinct of true comradeship. the clerk was as sensuous as the other was aesthetic, and his love adventures, told at great length and chiefly coined from his imagination, affected the supersensitive master of arts in the same way as so many whiffs of sewer gas. he deemed the clerk a filthy, uncultured brute, whose place was in the muck with the swine, and told him so; and he was reciprocally informed that he was a milk-and-water sissy and a cad. weatherbee could not have defined 'cad' for his life; but it satisfied its purpose, which after all seems the main point in life. weatherbee flatted every third note and sang such songs as 'the boston burglar' and 'the handsome cabin boy,' for hours at a time, while cuthfert wept with rage, till he could stand it no longer and fled into the outer cold. but there was no escape. the intense frost could not be endured for long at a time, and the little cabin crowded them--beds, stove, table, and all--into a space of ten by twelve. the very presence of either became a personal affront to the other, and they lapsed into sullen silences which increased in length and strength as the days went by. occasionally, the flash of an eye or the curl of a lip got the better of them, though they strove to wholly ignore each other during these mute periods. and a great wonder sprang up in the breast of each, as to how god had ever come to create the other. with little to do, time became an intolerable burden to them. this naturally made them still lazier. they sank into a physical lethargy which there was no escaping, and which made them rebel at the performance of the smallest chore. one morning when it was his turn to cook the common breakfast, weatherbee rolled out of his blankets, and to the snoring of his companion, lighted first the slush lamp and then the fire. the kettles were frozen hard, and there was no water in the cabin with which to wash. but he did not mind that. waiting for it to thaw, he sliced the bacon and plunged into the hateful task of bread-making. cuthfert had been slyly watching through his half-closed lids. consequently there was a scene, in which they fervently blessed each other, and agreed, henceforth, that each do his own cooking. a week later, cuthfert neglected his morning ablutions, but none the less complacently ate the meal which he had cooked. weatherbee grinned. after that the foolish custom of washing passed out of their lives. as the sugar-pile and other little luxuries dwindled, they began to be afraid they were not getting their proper shares, and in order that they might not be robbed, they fell to gorging themselves. the luxuries suffered in this gluttonous contest, as did also the men. in the absence of fresh vegetables and exercise, their blood became impoverished, and a loathsome, purplish rash crept over their bodies. yet they refused to heed the warning. next, their muscles and joints began to swell, the flesh turning black, while their mouths, gums, and lips took on the color of rich cream. instead of being drawn together by their misery, each gloated over the other's symptoms as the scurvy took its course. they lost all regard for personal appearance, and for that matter, common decency. the cabin became a pigpen, and never once were the beds made or fresh pine boughs laid underneath. yet they could not keep to their blankets, as they would have wished; for the frost was inexorable, and the fire box consumed much fuel. the hair of their heads and faces grew long and shaggy, while their garments would have disgusted a ragpicker. but they did not care. they were sick, and there was no one to see; besides, it was very painful to move about. to all this was added a new trouble--the fear of the north. this fear was the joint child of the great cold and the great silence, and was born in the darkness of december, when the sun dipped below the horizon for good. it affected them according to their natures. weatherbee fell prey to the grosser superstitions, and did his best to resurrect the spirits which slept in the forgotten graves. it was a fascinating thing, and in his dreams they came to him from out of the cold, and snuggled into his blankets, and told him of their toils and troubles ere they died. he shrank away from the clammy contact as they drew closer and twined their frozen limbs about him, and when they whispered in his ear of things to come, the cabin rang with his frightened shrieks. cuthfert did not understand--for they no longer spoke--and when thus awakened he invariably grabbed for his revolver. then he would sit up in bed, shivering nervously, with the weapon trained on the unconscious dreamer. cuthfert deemed the man going mad, and so came to fear for his life. his own malady assumed a less concrete form. the mysterious artisan who had laid the cabin, log by log, had pegged a wind-vane to the ridgepole. cuthfert noticed it always pointed south, and one day, irritated by its steadfastness of purpose, he turned it toward the east. he watched eagerly, but never a breath came by to disturb it. then he turned the vane to the north, swearing never again to touch it till the wind did blow. but the air frightened him with its unearthly calm, and he often rose in the middle of the night to see if the vane had veered--ten degrees would have satisfied him. but no, it poised above him as unchangeable as fate. his imagination ran riot, till it became to him a fetish. sometimes he followed the path it pointed across the dismal dominions, and allowed his soul to become saturated with the fear. he dwelt upon the unseen and the unknown till the burden of eternity appeared to be crushing him. everything in the northland had that crushing effect--the absence of life and motion; the darkness; the infinite peace of the brooding land; the ghastly silence, which made the echo of each heartbeat a sacrilege; the solemn forest which seemed to guard an awful, inexpressible something, which neither word nor thought could compass. the world he had so recently left, with its busy nations and great enterprises, seemed very far away. recollections occasionally obtruded--recollections of marts and galleries and crowded thoroughfares, of evening dress and social functions, of good men and dear women he had known--but they were dim memories of a life he had lived long centuries agone, on some other planet. this phantasm was the reality. standing beneath the wind-vane, his eyes fixed on the polar skies, he could not bring himself to realize that the southland really existed, that at that very moment it was a-roar with life and action. there was no southland, no men being born of women, no giving and taking in marriage. beyond his bleak skyline there stretched vast solitudes, and beyond these still vaster solitudes. there were no lands of sunshine, heavy with the perfume of flowers. such things were only old dreams of paradise. the sunlands of the west and the spicelands of the east, the smiling arcadias and blissful islands of the blest--ha! ha! his laughter split the void and shocked him with its unwonted sound. there was no sun. this was the universe, dead and cold and dark, and he its only citizen. weatherbee? at such moments weatherbee did not count. he was a caliban, a monstrous phantom, fettered to him for untold ages, the penalty of some forgotten crime. he lived with death among the dead, emasculated by the sense of his own insignificance, crushed by the passive mastery of the slumbering ages. the magnitude of all things appalled him. everything partook of the superlative save himself--the perfect cessation of wind and motion, the immensity of the snow-covered wildness, the height of the sky and the depth of the silence. that wind-vane--if it would only move. if a thunderbolt would fall, or the forest flare up in flame. the rolling up of the heavens as a scroll, the crash of doom--anything, anything! but no, nothing moved; the silence crowded in, and the fear of the north laid icy fingers on his heart. once, like another crusoe, by the edge of the river he came upon a track--the faint tracery of a snowshoe rabbit on the delicate snow-crust. it was a revelation. there was life in the northland. he would follow it, look upon it, gloat over it. he forgot his swollen muscles, plunging through the deep snow in an ecstasy of anticipation. the forest swallowed him up, and the brief midday twilight vanished; but he pursued his quest till exhausted nature asserted itself and laid him helpless in the snow. there he groaned and cursed his folly, and knew the track to be the fancy of his brain; and late that night he dragged himself into the cabin on hands and knees, his cheeks frozen and a strange numbness about his feet. weatherbee grinned malevolently, but made no offer to help him. he thrust needles into his toes and thawed them out by the stove. a week later mortification set in. but the clerk had his own troubles. the dead men came out of their graves more frequently now, and rarely left him, waking or sleeping. he grew to wait and dread their coming, never passing the twin cairns without a shudder. one night they came to him in his sleep and led him forth to an appointed task. frightened into inarticulate horror, he awoke between the heaps of stones and fled wildly to the cabin. but he had lain there for some time, for his feet and cheeks were also frozen. sometimes he became frantic at their insistent presence, and danced about the cabin, cutting the empty air with an axe, and smashing everything within reach. during these ghostly encounters, cuthfert huddled into his blankets and followed the madman about with a cocked revolver, ready to shoot him if he came too near. but, recovering from one of these spells, the clerk noticed the weapon trained upon him. his suspicions were aroused, and thenceforth he, too, lived in fear of his life. they watched each other closely after that, and faced about in startled fright whenever either passed behind the other's back. the apprehensiveness became a mania which controlled them even in their sleep. through mutual fear they tacitly let the slush-lamp burn all night, and saw to a plentiful supply of bacon-grease before retiring. the slightest movement on the part of one was sufficient to arouse the other, and many a still watch their gazes countered as they shook beneath their blankets with fingers on the trigger-guards. what with the fear of the north, the mental strain, and the ravages of the disease, they lost all semblance of humanity, taking on the appearance of wild beasts, hunted and desperate. their cheeks and noses, as an aftermath of the freezing, had turned black. their frozen toes had begun to drop away at the first and second joints. every movement brought pain, but the fire box was insatiable, wringing a ransom of torture from their miserable bodies. day in, day out, it demanded its food--a veritable pound of flesh--and they dragged themselves into the forest to chop wood on their knees. once, crawling thus in search of dry sticks, unknown to each other they entered a thicket from opposite sides. suddenly, without warning, two peering death's-heads confronted each other. suffering had so transformed them that recognition was impossible. they sprang to their feet, shrieking with terror, and dashed away on their mangled stumps; and falling at the cabin's door, they clawed and scratched like demons till they discovered their mistake. occasionally they lapsed normal, and during one of these sane intervals, the chief bone of contention, the sugar, had been divided equally between them. they guarded their separate sacks, stored up in the cache, with jealous eyes; for there were but a few cupfuls left, and they were totally devoid of faith in each other. but one day cuthfert made a mistake. hardly able to move, sick with pain, with his head swimming and eyes blinded, he crept into the cache, sugar canister in hand, and mistook weatherbee's sack for his own. january had been born but a few days when this occurred. the sun had some time since passed its lowest southern declination, and at meridian now threw flaunting streaks of yellow light upon the northern sky. on the day following his mistake with the sugar-bag, cuthfert found himself feeling better, both in body and in spirit. as noontime drew near and the day brightened, he dragged himself outside to feast on the evanescent glow, which was to him an earnest of the sun's future intentions. weatherbee was also feeling somewhat better, and crawled out beside him. they propped themselves in the snow beneath the moveless wind-vane, and waited. the stillness of death was about them. in other climes, when nature falls into such moods, there is a subdued air of expectancy, a waiting for some small voice to take up the broken strain. not so in the north. the two men had lived seeming eons in this ghostly peace. they could remember no song of the past; they could conjure no song of the future. this unearthly calm had always been--the tranquil silence of eternity. their eyes were fixed upon the north. unseen, behind their backs, behind the towering mountains to the south, the sun swept toward the zenith of another sky than theirs. sole spectators of the mighty canvas, they watched the false dawn slowly grow. a faint flame began to glow and smoulder. it deepened in intensity, ringing the changes of reddish-yellow, purple, and saffron. so bright did it become that cuthfert thought the sun must surely be behind it--a miracle, the sun rising in the north! suddenly, without warning and without fading, the canvas was swept clean. there was no color in the sky. the light had gone out of the day. they caught their breaths in half-sobs. but lo! the air was aglint with particles of scintillating frost, and there, to the north, the wind-vane lay in vague outline of the snow. a shadow! a shadow! it was exactly midday. they jerked their heads hurriedly to the south. a golden rim peeped over the mountain's snowy shoulder, smiled upon them an instant, then dipped from sight again. there were tears in their eyes as they sought each other. a strange softening came over them. they felt irresistibly drawn toward each other. the sun was coming back again. it would be with them tomorrow, and the next day, and the next. and it would stay longer every visit, and a time would come when it would ride their heaven day and night, never once dropping below the skyline. there would be no night. the ice-locked winter would be broken; the winds would blow and the forests answer; the land would bathe in the blessed sunshine, and life renew. hand in hand, they would quit this horrid dream and journey back to the southland. they lurched blindly forward, and their hands met--their poor maimed hands, swollen and distorted beneath their mittens. but the promise was destined to remain unfulfilled. the northland is the northland, and men work out their souls by strange rules, which other men, who have not journeyed into far countries, cannot come to understand. an hour later, cuthfert put a pan of bread into the oven, and fell to speculating on what the surgeons could do with his feet when he got back. home did not seem so very far away now. weatherbee was rummaging in the cache. of a sudden, he raised a whirlwind of blasphemy, which in turn ceased with startling abruptness. the other man had robbed his sugar-sack. still, things might have happened differently, had not the two dead men come out from under the stones and hushed the hot words in his throat. they led him quite gently from the cache, which he forgot to close. that consummation was reached; that something they had whispered to him in his dreams was about to happen. they guided him gently, very gently, to the woodpile, where they put the axe in his hands. then they helped him shove open the cabin door, and he felt sure they shut it after him--at least he heard it slam and the latch fall sharply into place. and he knew they were waiting just without, waiting for him to do his task. 'carter! i say, carter!' percy cuthfert was frightened at the look on the clerk's face, and he made haste to put the table between them. carter weatherbee followed, without haste and without enthusiasm. there was neither pity nor passion in his face, but rather the patient, stolid look of one who has certain work to do and goes about it methodically. 'i say, what's the matter?' the clerk dodged back, cutting off his retreat to the door, but never opening his mouth. 'i say, carter, i say; let's talk. there's a good chap.' the master of arts was thinking rapidly, now, shaping a skillful flank movement on the bed where his smith & wesson lay. keeping his eyes on the madman, he rolled backward on the bunk, at the same time clutching the pistol. 'carter!' the powder flashed full in weatherbee's face, but he swung his weapon and leaped forward. the axe bit deeply at the base of the spine, and percy cuthfert felt all consciousness of his lower limbs leave him. then the clerk fell heavily upon him, clutching him by the throat with feeble fingers. the sharp bite of the axe had caused cuthfert to drop the pistol, and as his lungs panted for release, he fumbled aimlessly for it among the blankets. then he remembered. he slid a hand up the clerk's belt to the sheath-knife; and they drew very close to each other in that last clinch. percy cuthfert felt his strength leave him. the lower portion of his body was useless, the inert weight of weatherbee crushed him--crushed him and pinned him there like a bear under a trap. the cabin became filled with a familiar odor, and he knew the bread to be burning. yet what did it matter? he would never need it. and there were all of six cupfuls of sugar in the cache--if he had foreseen this he would not have been so saving the last several days. would the wind-vane ever move? why not' had he not seen the sun today? he would go and see. no; it was impossible to move. he had not thought the clerk so heavy a man. how quickly the cabin cooled! the fire must be out. the cold was forcing in. it must be below zero already, and the ice creeping up the inside of the door. he could not see it, but his past experience enabled him to gauge its progress by the cabin's temperature. the lower hinge must be white ere now. would the tale of this ever reach the world? how would his friends take it? they would read it over their coffee, most likely, and talk it over at the clubs. he could see them very clearly, 'poor old cuthfert,' they murmured; 'not such a bad sort of a chap, after all.' he smiled at their eulogies, and passed on in search of a turkish bath. it was the same old crowd upon the streets. strange, they did not notice his moosehide moccasins and tattered german socks! he would take a cab. and after the bath a shave would not be bad. no; he would eat first. steak, and potatoes, and green things how fresh it all was! and what was that? squares of honey, streaming liquid amber! but why did they bring so much? ha! ha! he could never eat it all. shine! why certainly. he put his foot on the box. the bootblack looked curiously up at him, and he remembered his moosehide moccasins and went away hastily. hark! the wind-vane must be surely spinning. no; a mere singing in his ears. that was all--a mere singing. the ice must have passed the latch by now. more likely the upper hinge was covered. between the moss-chinked roof-poles, little points of frost began to appear. how slowly they grew! no; not so slowly. there was a new one, and there another. two--three--four; they were coming too fast to count. there were two growing together. and there, a third had joined them. why, there were no more spots. they had run together and formed a sheet. well, he would have company. if gabriel ever broke the silence of the north, they would stand together, hand in hand, before the great white throne. and god would judge them, god would judge them! then percy cuthfert closed his eyes and dropped off to sleep. to the man on the trail 'dump it in!.' 'but i say, kid, isn't that going it a little too strong? whisky and alcohol's bad enough; but when it comes to brandy and pepper sauce and-' 'dump it in. who's making this punch, anyway?' and malemute kid smiled benignantly through the clouds of steam. 'by the time you've been in this country as long as i have, my son, and lived on rabbit tracks and salmon belly, you'll learn that christmas comes only once per annum. and a christmas without punch is sinking a hole to bedrock with nary a pay streak.' 'stack up on that fer a high cyard,' approved big jim belden, who had come down from his claim on mazy may to spend christmas, and who, as everyone knew, had been living the two months past on straight moose meat. 'hain't fergot the hooch we-uns made on the tanana, hey yeh?' 'well, i guess yes. boys, it would have done your hearts good to see that whole tribe fighting drunk--and all because of a glorious ferment of sugar and sour dough. that was before your time,' malemute kid said as he turned to stanley prince, a young mining expert who had been in two years. 'no white women in the country then, and mason wanted to get married. ruth's father was chief of the tananas, and objected, like the rest of the tribe. stiff? why, i used my last pound of sugar; finest work in that line i ever did in my life. you should have seen the chase, down the river and across the portage.' 'but the squaw?' asked louis savoy, the tall french canadian, becoming interested; for he had heard of this wild deed when at forty mile the preceding winter. then malemute kid, who was a born raconteur, told the unvarnished tale of the northland lochinvar. more than one rough adventurer of the north felt his heartstrings draw closer and experienced vague yearnings for the sunnier pastures of the southland, where life promised something more than a barren struggle with cold and death. 'we struck the yukon just behind the first ice run,' he concluded, 'and the tribe only a quarter of an hour behind. but that saved us; for the second run broke the jam above and shut them out. when they finally got into nuklukyeto, the whole post was ready for them. 'and as to the forgathering, ask father roubeau here: he performed the ceremony.' the jesuit took the pipe from his lips but could only express his gratification with patriarchal smiles, while protestant and catholic vigorously applauded. 'by gar!' ejaculated louis savoy, who seemed overcome by the romance of it. 'la petite squaw: mon mason brav. by gar!' then, as the first tin cups of punch went round, bettles the unquenchable sprang to his feet and struck up his favorite drinking song: 'there's henry ward beecher and sunday-school teachers, all drink of the sassafras root; but you bet all the same, if it had its right name, it's the juice of the forbidden fruit.' 'oh, the juice of the forbidden fruit,' roared out the bacchanalian chorus, 'oh, the juice of the forbidden fruit; but you bet all the same, if it had its right name, it's the juice of the forbidden fruit.' malemute kid's frightful concoction did its work; the men of the camps and trails unbent in its genial glow, and jest and song and tales of past adventure went round the board. aliens from a dozen lands, they toasted each and all. it was the englishman, prince, who pledged 'uncle sam, the precocious infant of the new world'; the yankee, bettles, who drank to 'the queen, god bless her'; and together, savoy and meyers, the german trader, clanged their cups to alsace and lorraine. then malemute kid arose, cup in hand, and glanced at the greased-paper window, where the frost stood full three inches thick. 'a health to the man on trail this night; may his grub hold out; may his dogs keep their legs; may his matches never miss fire.' crack! crack! heard the familiar music of the dog whip, the whining howl of the malemutes, and the crunch of a sled as it drew up to the cabin. conversation languished while they waited the issue. 'an old-timer; cares for his dogs and then himself,' whispered malemute kid to prince as they listened to the snapping jaws and the wolfish snarls and yelps of pain which proclaimed to their practiced ears that the stranger was beating back their dogs while he fed his own. then came the expected knock, sharp and confident, and the stranger entered. dazzled by the light, he hesitated a moment at the door, giving to all a chance for scrutiny. he was a striking personage, and a most picturesque one, in his arctic dress of wool and fur. standing six foot two or three, with proportionate breadth of shoulders and depth of chest, his smooth-shaven face nipped by the cold to a gleaming pink, his long lashes and eyebrows white with ice, and the ear and neck flaps of his great wolfskin cap loosely raised, he seemed, of a verity, the frost king, just stepped in out of the night. clasped outside his mackinaw jacket, a beaded belt held two large colt's revolvers and a hunting knife, while he carried, in addition to the inevitable dog whip, a smokeless rifle of the largest bore and latest pattern. as he came forward, for all his step was firm and elastic, they could see that fatigue bore heavily upon him. an awkward silence had fallen, but his hearty 'what cheer, my lads?' put them quickly at ease, and the next instant malemute kid and he had gripped hands. though they had never met, each had heard of the other, and the recognition was mutual. a sweeping introduction and a mug of punch were forced upon him before he could explain his errand. how long since that basket sled, with three men and eight dogs, passed?' he asked. 'an even two days ahead. are you after them?' 'yes; my team. run them off under my very nose, the cusses. i've gained two days on them already--pick them up on the next run.' 'reckon they'll show spunk?' asked belden, in order to keep up the conversation, for malemute kid already had the coffeepot on and was busily frying bacon and moose meat. the stranger significantly tapped his revolvers. 'when'd yeh leave dawson?' 'twelve o'clock.' 'last night?'--as a matter of course. 'today.' a murmur of surprise passed round the circle. and well it might; for it was just midnight, and seventy-five miles of rough river trail was not to be sneered at for a twelve hours' run. the talk soon became impersonal, however, harking back to the trails of childhood. as the young stranger ate of the rude fare malemute kid attentively studied his face. nor was he long in deciding that it was fair, honest, and open, and that he liked it. still youthful, the lines had been firmly traced by toil and hardship. though genial in conversation, and mild when at rest, the blue eyes gave promise of the hard steel-glitter which comes when called into action, especially against odds. the heavy jaw and square-cut chin demonstrated rugged pertinacity and indomitability. nor, though the attributes of the lion were there, was there wanting the certain softness, the hint of womanliness, which bespoke the emotional nature. 'so thet's how me an' the ol' woman got spliced,' said belden, concluding the exciting tale of his courtship. '"here we be, dad," sez she. "an' may yeh be damned," sez he to her, an' then to me, "jim, yeh--yeh git outen them good duds o' yourn; i want a right peart slice o' thet forty acre plowed 'fore dinner." an' then he sort o' sniffled an' kissed her. an' i was thet happy--but he seen me an' roars out, "yeh, jim!" an' yeh bet i dusted fer the barn.' 'any kids waiting for you back in the states?' asked the stranger. 'nope; sal died 'fore any come. thet's why i'm here.' belden abstractedly began to light his pipe, which had failed to go out, and then brightened up with, 'how 'bout yerself, stranger--married man?' for reply, he opened his watch, slipped it from the thong which served for a chain, and passed it over. belden picked up the slush lamp, surveyed the inside of the case critically, and, swearing admiringly to himself, handed it over to louis savoy. with numerous 'by gars!' he finally surrendered it to prince, and they noticed that his hands trembled and his eyes took on a peculiar softness. and so it passed from horny hand to horny hand--the pasted photograph of a woman, the clinging kind that such men fancy, with a babe at the breast. those who had not yet seen the wonder were keen with curiosity; those who had became silent and retrospective. they could face the pinch of famine, the grip of scurvy, or the quick death by field or flood; but the pictured semblance of a stranger woman and child made women and children of them all. 'never have seen the youngster yet--he's a boy, she says, and two years old,' said the stranger as he received the treasure back. a lingering moment he gazed upon it, then snapped the case and turned away, but not quick enough to hide the restrained rush of tears. malemute kid led him to a bunk and bade him turn in. 'call me at four sharp. don't fail me,' were his last words, and a moment later he was breathing in the heaviness of exhausted sleep. 'by jove! he's a plucky chap,' commented prince. 'three hours' sleep after seventy-five miles with the dogs, and then the trail again. who is he, kid?' 'jack westondale. been in going on three years, with nothing but the name of working like a horse, and any amount of bad luck to his credit. i never knew him, but sitka charley told me about him.' 'it seems hard that a man with a sweet young wife like his should be putting in his years in this godforsaken hole, where every year counts two on the outside.' 'the trouble with him is clean grit and stubbornness. he's cleaned up twice with a stake, but lost it both times.' here the conversation was broken off by an uproar from bettles, for the effect had begun to wear away. and soon the bleak years of monotonous grub and deadening toil were being forgotten in rough merriment. malemute kid alone seemed unable to lose himself, and cast many an anxious look at his watch. once he put on his mittens and beaver-skin cap, and, leaving the cabin, fell to rummaging about in the cache. nor could he wait the hour designated; for he was fifteen minutes ahead of time in rousing his guest. the young giant had stiffened badly, and brisk rubbing was necessary to bring him to his feet. he tottered painfully out of the cabin, to find his dogs harnessed and everything ready for the start. the company wished him good luck and a short chase, while father roubeau, hurriedly blessing him, led the stampede for the cabin; and small wonder, for it is not good to face seventy-four degrees below zero with naked ears and hands. malemute kid saw him to the main trail, and there, gripping his hand heartily, gave him advice. 'you'll find a hundred pounds of salmon eggs on the sled,' he said. 'the dogs will go as far on that as with one hundred and fifty of fish, and you can't get dog food at pelly, as you probably expected.' the stranger started, and his eyes flashed, but he did not interrupt. 'you can't get an ounce of food for dog or man till you reach five fingers, and that's a stiff two hundred miles. watch out for open water on the thirty mile river, and be sure you take the big cutoff above le barge.' 'how did you know it? surely the news can't be ahead of me already?' 'i don't know it; and what's more, i don't want to know it. but you never owned that team you're chasing. sitka charley sold it to them last spring. but he sized you up to me as square once, and i believe him. i've seen your face; i like it. and i've seen--why, damn you, hit the high places for salt water and that wife of yours, and--' here the kid unmittened and jerked out his sack. 'no; i don't need it,' and the tears froze on his cheeks as he convulsively gripped malemute kid's hand. 'then don't spare the dogs; cut them out of the traces as fast as they drop; buy them, and think they're cheap at ten dollars a pound. you can get them at five fingers, little salmon, and hootalinqua. and watch out for wet feet,' was his parting advice. 'keep a-traveling up to twenty-five, but if it gets below that, build a fire and change your socks.' fifteen minutes had barely elapsed when the jingle of bells announced new arrivals. the door opened, and a mounted policeman of the northwest territory entered, followed by two half-breed dog drivers. like westondale, they were heavily armed and showed signs of fatigue. the half-breeds had been born to the trail and bore it easily; but the young policeman was badly exhausted. still, the dogged obstinacy of his race held him to the pace he had set, and would hold him till he dropped in his tracks. 'when did westondale pull out?' he asked. 'he stopped here, didn't he?' this was supererogatory, for the tracks told their own tale too well. malemute kid had caught belden's eye, and he, scenting the wind, replied evasively, 'a right peart while back.' 'come, my man; speak up,' the policeman admonished. 'yeh seem to want him right smart. hez he ben gittin' cantankerous down dawson way?' 'held up harry mcfarland's for forty thousand; exchanged it at the p.c. store for a check on seattle; and who's to stop the cashing of it if we don't overtake him? when did he pull out?' every eye suppressed its excitement, for malemute kid had given the cue, and the young officer encountered wooden faces on every hand. striding over to prince, he put the question to him. though it hurt him, gazing into the frank, earnest face of his fellow countryman, he replied inconsequentially on the state of the trail. then he espied father roubeau, who could not lie. 'a quarter of an hour ago,' the priest answered; 'but he had four hours' rest for himself and dogs.' 'fifteen minutes' start, and he's fresh! my god!' the poor fellow staggered back, half fainting from exhaustion and disappointment, murmuring something about the run from dawson in ten hours and the dogs being played out. malemute kid forced a mug of punch upon him; then he turned for the door, ordering the dog drivers to follow. but the warmth and promise of rest were too tempting, and they objected strenuously. the kid was conversant with their french patois, and followed it anxiously. they swore that the dogs were gone up; that siwash and babette would have to be shot before the first mile was covered; that the rest were almost as bad; and that it would be better for all hands to rest up. 'lend me five dogs?' he asked, turning to malemute kid. but the kid shook his head. 'i'll sign a check on captain constantine for five thousand--here's my papers--i'm authorized to draw at my own discretion.' again the silent refusal. 'then i'll requisition them in the name of the queen.' smiling incredulously, the kid glanced at his well-stocked arsenal, and the englishman, realizing his impotency, turned for the door. but the dog drivers still objecting, he whirled upon them fiercely, calling them women and curs. the swart face of the older half-breed flushed angrily as he drew himself up and promised in good, round terms that he would travel his leader off his legs, and would then be delighted to plant him in the snow. the young officer--and it required his whole will--walked steadily to the door, exhibiting a freshness he did not possess. but they all knew and appreciated his proud effort; nor could he veil the twinges of agony that shot across his face. covered with frost, the dogs were curled up in the snow, and it was almost impossible to get them to their feet. the poor brutes whined under the stinging lash, for the dog drivers were angry and cruel; nor till babette, the leader, was cut from the traces, could they break out the sled and get under way. 'a dirty scoundrel and a liar!' 'by gar! him no good!' 'a thief!' 'worse than an indian!' it was evident that they were angry--first at the way they had been deceived; and second at the outraged ethics of the northland, where honesty, above all, was man's prime jewel. 'an' we gave the cuss a hand, after knowin' what he'd did.' all eyes turned accusingly upon malemute kid, who rose from the corner where he had been making babette comfortable, and silently emptied the bowl for a final round of punch. 'it's a cold night, boys--a bitter cold night,' was the irrelevant commencement of his defense. 'you've all traveled trail, and know what that stands for. don't jump a dog when he's down. you've only heard one side. a whiter man than jack westondale never ate from the same pot nor stretched blanket with you or me. 'last fall he gave his whole clean-up, forty thousand, to joe castrell, to buy in on dominion. today he'd be a millionaire. but, while he stayed behind at circle city, taking care of his partner with the scurvy, what does castell do? goes into mcfarland's, jumps the limit, and drops the whole sack. found him dead in the snow the next day. and poor jack laying his plans to go out this winter to his wife and the boy he's never seen. you'll notice he took exactly what his partner lost--forty thousand. well, he's gone out; and what are you going to do about it?' the kid glanced round the circle of his judges, noted the softening of their faces, then raised his mug aloft. 'so a health to the man on trail this night; may his grub hold out; may his dogs keep their legs; may his matches never miss fire. 'god prosper him; good luck go with him; and--' 'confusion to the mounted police!' cried bettles, to the crash of the empty cups. the priestly prerogative this is the story of a man who did not appreciate his wife; also, of a woman who did him too great an honor when she gave herself to him. incidentally, it concerns a jesuit priest who had never been known to lie. he was an appurtenance, and a very necessary one, to the yukon country; but the presence of the other two was merely accidental. they were specimens of the many strange waifs which ride the breast of a gold rush or come tailing along behind. edwin bentham and grace bentham were waifs; they were also tailing along behind, for the klondike rush of ' had long since swept down the great river and subsided into the famine-stricken city of dawson. when the yukon shut up shop and went to sleep under a three-foot ice-sheet, this peripatetic couple found themselves at the five finger rapids, with the city of gold still a journey of many sleeps to the north. many cattle had been butchered at this place in the fall of the year, and the offal made a goodly heap. the three fellow-voyagers of edwin bentham and wife gazed upon this deposit, did a little mental arithmetic, caught a certain glimpse of a bonanza, and decided to remain. and all winter they sold sacks of bones and frozen hides to the famished dog-teams. it was a modest price they asked, a dollar a pound, just as it came. six months later, when the sun came back and the yukon awoke, they buckled on their heavy moneybelts and journeyed back to the southland, where they yet live and lie mightily about the klondike they never saw. but edwin bentham--he was an indolent fellow, and had he not been possessed of a wife, would have gladly joined issued in the dog-meat speculation. as it was, she played upon his vanity, told him how great and strong he was, how a man such as he certainly was could overcome all obstacles and of a surety obtain the golden fleece. so he squared his jaw, sold his share in the bones and hides for a sled and one dog, and turned his snowshoes to the north. needless to state, grace bentham's snowshoes never allowed his tracks to grow cold. nay, ere their tribulations had seen three days, it was the man who followed in the rear, and the woman who broke trail in advance. of course, if anybody hove in sight, the position was instantly reversed. thus did his manhood remain virgin to the travelers who passed like ghosts on the silent trail. there are such men in this world. how such a man and such a woman came to take each other for better and for worse is unimportant to this narrative. these things are familiar to us all, and those people who do them, or even question them too closely, are apt to lose a beautiful faith which is known as eternal fitness. edwin bentham was a boy, thrust by mischance into a man's body,--a boy who could complacently pluck a butterfly, wing from wing, or cower in abject terror before a lean, nervy fellow, not half his size. he was a selfish cry-baby, hidden behind a man's mustache and stature, and glossed over with a skin-deep veneer of culture and conventionality. yes; he was a clubman and a society man, the sort that grace social functions and utter inanities with a charm and unction which is indescribable; the sort that talk big, and cry over a toothache; the sort that put more hell into a woman's life by marrying her than can the most graceless libertine that ever browsed in forbidden pastures. we meet these men every day, but we rarely know them for what they are. second to marrying them, the best way to get this knowledge is to eat out of the same pot and crawl under the same blanket with them for--well, say a week; no greater margin is necessary. to see grace bentham, was to see a slender, girlish creature; to know her, was to know a soul which dwarfed your own, yet retained all the elements of the eternal feminine. this was the woman who urged and encouraged her husband in his northland quest, who broke trail for him when no one was looking, and cried in secret over her weakling woman's body. so journeyed this strangely assorted couple down to old fort selkirk, then through fivescore miles of dismal wilderness to stuart river. and when the short day left them, and the man lay down in the snow and blubbered, it was the woman who lashed him to the sled, bit her lips with the pain of her aching limbs, and helped the dog haul him to malemute kid's cabin. malemute kid was not at home, but meyers, the german trader, cooked great moose-steaks and shook up a bed of fresh pine boughs. lake, langham, and parker, were excited, and not unduly so when the cause was taken into account. 'oh, sandy! say, can you tell a porterhouse from a round? come out and lend us a hand, anyway!' this appeal emanated from the cache, where langham was vainly struggling with divers quarters of frozen moose. 'don't you budge from those dishes!' commanded parker. 'i say, sandy; there's a good fellow--just run down to the missouri camp and borrow some cinnamon,' begged lake. 'oh! oh! hurry up! why don't--' but the crash of meat and boxes, in the cache, abruptly quenched this peremptory summons. 'come now, sandy; it won't take a minute to go down to the missouri--' 'you leave him alone,' interrupted parker. 'how am i to mix the biscuits if the table isn't cleared off?' sandy paused in indecision, till suddenly the fact that he was langham's 'man' dawned upon him. then he apologetically threw down the greasy dishcloth, and went to his master's rescue. these promising scions of wealthy progenitors had come to the northland in search of laurels, with much money to burn, and a 'man' apiece. luckily for their souls, the other two men were up the white river in search of a mythical quartz-ledge; so sandy had to grin under the responsibility of three healthy masters, each of whom was possessed of peculiar cookery ideas. twice that morning had a disruption of the whole camp been imminent, only averted by immense concessions from one or the other of these knights of the chafing-dish. but at last their mutual creation, a really dainty dinner, was completed. then they sat down to a three-cornered game of 'cut-throat,'--a proceeding which did away with all casus belli for future hostilities, and permitted the victor to depart on a most important mission. this fortune fell to parker, who parted his hair in the middle, put on his mittens and bearskin cap, and stepped over to malemute kid's cabin. and when he returned, it was in the company of grace bentham and malemute kid,--the former very sorry her husband could not share with her their hospitality, for he had gone up to look at the henderson creek mines, and the latter still a trifle stiff from breaking trail down the stuart river. meyers had been asked, but had declined, being deeply engrossed in an experiment of raising bread from hops. well, they could do without the husband; but a woman--why they had not seen one all winter, and the presence of this one promised a new era in their lives. they were college men and gentlemen, these three young fellows, yearning for the flesh-pots they had been so long denied. probably grace bentham suffered from a similar hunger; at least, it meant much to her, the first bright hour in many weeks of darkness. but that wonderful first course, which claimed the versatile lake for its parent, had no sooner been served than there came a loud knock at the door. 'oh! ah! won't you come in, mr. bentham?' said parker, who had stepped to see who the newcomer might be. 'is my wife here?' gruffly responded that worthy. 'why, yes. we left word with mr. meyers.' parker was exerting his most dulcet tones, inwardly wondering what the deuce it all meant. 'won't you come in? expecting you at any moment, we reserved a place. and just in time for the first course, too.' 'come in, edwin, dear,' chirped grace bentham from her seat at the table. parker naturally stood aside. 'i want my wife,' reiterated bentham hoarsely, the intonation savoring disagreeably of ownership. parker gasped, was within an ace of driving his fist into the face of his boorish visitor, but held himself awkwardly in check. everybody rose. lake lost his head and caught himself on the verge of saying, 'must you go?' then began the farrago of leave-taking. 'so nice of you--' 'i am awfully sorry' 'by jove! how things did brighten--' 'really now, you--' 'thank you ever so much--' 'nice trip to dawson--' etc., etc. in this wise the lamb was helped into her jacket and led to the slaughter. then the door slammed, and they gazed woefully upon the deserted table. 'damn!' langham had suffered disadvantages in his early training, and his oaths were weak and monotonous. 'damn!' he repeated, vaguely conscious of the incompleteness and vainly struggling for a more virile term. it is a clever woman who can fill out the many weak places in an inefficient man, by her own indomitability, re-enforce his vacillating nature, infuse her ambitious soul into his, and spur him on to great achievements. and it is indeed a very clever and tactful woman who can do all this, and do it so subtly that the man receives all the credit and believes in his inmost heart that everything is due to him and him alone. this is what grace bentham proceeded to do. arriving in dawson with a few pounds of flour and several letters of introduction, she at once applied herself to the task of pushing her big baby to the fore. it was she who melted the stony heart and wrung credit from the rude barbarian who presided over the destiny of the p. c. company; yet it was edwin bentham to whom the concession was ostensibly granted. it was she who dragged her baby up and down creeks, over benches and divides, and on a dozen wild stampedes; yet everybody remarked what an energetic fellow that bentham was. it was she who studied maps, and catechised miners, and hammered geography and locations into his hollow head, till everybody marveled at his broad grasp of the country and knowledge of its conditions. of course, they said the wife was a brick, and only a few wise ones appreciated and pitied the brave little woman. she did the work; he got the credit and reward. in the northwest territory a married woman cannot stake or record a creek, bench, or quartz claim; so edwin bentham went down to the gold commissioner and filed on bench claim , second tier, of french hill. and when april came they were washing out a thousand dollars a day, with many, many such days in prospect. at the base of french hill lay eldorado creek, and on a creek claim stood the cabin of clyde wharton. at present he was not washing out a diurnal thousand dollars; but his dumps grew, shift by shift, and there would come a time when those dumps would pass through his sluice-boxes, depositing in the riffles, in the course of half a dozen days, several hundred thousand dollars. he often sat in that cabin, smoked his pipe, and dreamed beautiful little dreams,--dreams in which neither the dumps nor the half-ton of dust in the p. c. company's big safe, played a part. and grace bentham, as she washed tin dishes in her hillside cabin, often glanced down into eldorado creek, and dreamed,--not of dumps nor dust, however. they met frequently, as the trail to the one claim crossed the other, and there is much to talk about in the northland spring; but never once, by the light of an eye nor the slip of a tongue, did they speak their hearts. this is as it was at first. but one day edwin bentham was brutal. all boys are thus; besides, being a french hill king now, he began to think a great deal of himself and to forget all he owed to his wife. on this day, wharton heard of it, and waylaid grace bentham, and talked wildly. this made her very happy, though she would not listen, and made him promise to not say such things again. her hour had not come. but the sun swept back on its northern journey, the black of midnight changed to the steely color of dawn, the snow slipped away, the water dashed again over the glacial drift, and the wash-up began. day and night the yellow clay and scraped bedrock hurried through the swift sluices, yielding up its ransom to the strong men from the southland. and in that time of tumult came grace bentham's hour. to all of us such hours at some time come,--that is, to us who are not too phlegmatic. some people are good, not from inherent love of virtue, but from sheer laziness. but those of us who know weak moments may understand. edwin bentham was weighing dust over the bar of the saloon at the forks--altogether too much of his dust went over that pine board--when his wife came down the hill and slipped into clyde wharton's cabin. wharton was not expecting her, but that did not alter the case. and much subsequent misery and idle waiting might have been avoided, had not father roubeau seen this and turned aside from the main creek trail. 'my child,--' 'hold on, father roubeau! though i'm not of your faith, i respect you; but you can't come in between this woman and me!' 'you know what you are doing?' 'know! were you god almighty, ready to fling me into eternal fire, i'd bank my will against yours in this matter.' wharton had placed grace on a stool and stood belligerently before her. 'you sit down on that chair and keep quiet,' he continued, addressing the jesuit. 'i'll take my innings now. you can have yours after.' father roubeau bowed courteously and obeyed. he was an easy-going man and had learned to bide his time. wharton pulled a stool alongside the woman's, smothering her hand in his. 'then you do care for me, and will take me away?' her face seemed to reflect the peace of this man, against whom she might draw close for shelter. 'dear, don't you remember what i said before? of course i-' 'but how can you?--the wash-up?' 'do you think that worries? anyway, i'll give the job to father roubeau, here. 'i can trust him to safely bank the dust with the company.' 'to think of it!--i'll never see him again.' 'a blessing!' 'and to go--o, clyde, i can't! i can't!' 'there, there; of course you can, just let me plan it.--you see, as soon as we get a few traps together, we'll start, and-' 'suppose he comes back?' 'i'll break every-' 'no, no! no fighting, clyde! promise me that.' 'all right! i'll just tell the men to throw him off the claim. they've seen how he's treated you, and haven't much love for him.' 'you mustn't do that. you mustn't hurt him.' 'what then? let him come right in here and take you away before my eyes?' 'no-o,' she half whispered, stroking his hand softly. 'then let me run it, and don't worry. i'll see he doesn't get hurt. precious lot he cared whether you got hurt or not! we won't go back to dawson. i'll send word down for a couple of the boys to outfit and pole a boat up the yukon. we'll cross the divide and raft down the indian river to meet them. then--' 'and then?' her head was on his shoulder. their voices sank to softer cadences, each word a caress. the jesuit fidgeted nervously. 'and then?' she repeated. 'why we'll pole up, and up, and up, and portage the white horse rapids and the box canon.' 'yes?' 'and the sixty-mile river; then the lakes, chilcoot, dyea, and salt water.' 'but, dear, i can't pole a boat.' 'you little goose! i'll get sitka charley; he knows all the good water and best camps, and he is the best traveler i ever met, if he is an indian. all you'll have to do, is to sit in the middle of the boat, and sing songs, and play cleopatra, and fight--no, we're in luck; too early for mosquitoes.' 'and then, o my antony?' 'and then a steamer, san francisco, and the world! never to come back to this cursed hole again. think of it! the world, and ours to choose from! i'll sell out. why, we're rich! the waldworth syndicate will give me half a million for what's left in the ground, and i've got twice as much in the dumps and with the p. c. company. we'll go to the fair in paris in . we'll go to jerusalem, if you say so. 'we'll buy an italian palace, and you can play cleopatra to your heart's content. no, you shall be lucretia, acte, or anybody your little heart sees fit to become. but you mustn't, you really mustn't-' 'the wife of caesar shall be above reproach.' 'of course, but--' 'but i won't be your wife, will i, dear?' 'i didn't mean that.' 'but you'll love me just as much, and never even think--oh! i know you'll be like other men; you'll grow tired, and--and-' 'how can you? i--' 'promise me.' 'yes, yes; i do promise.' 'you say it so easily, dear; but how do you know?--or i know? i have so little to give, yet it is so much, and all i have. o, clyde! promise me you won't?' 'there, there! you mustn't begin to doubt already. till death do us part, you know.' 'think! i once said that to--to him, and now?' 'and now, little sweetheart, you're not to bother about such things any more. of course, i never, never will, and--' and for the first time, lips trembled against lips. father roubeau had been watching the main trail through the window, but could stand the strain no longer. he cleared his throat and turned around. 'your turn now, father!' wharton's face was flushed with the fire of his first embrace. there was an exultant ring to his voice as he abdicated in the other's favor. he had no doubt as to the result. neither had grace, for a smile played about her mouth as she faced the priest. 'my child,' he began, 'my heart bleeds for you. it is a pretty dream, but it cannot be.' 'and why, father? i have said yes.' 'you knew not what you did. you did not think of the oath you took, before your god, to that man who is your husband. it remains for me to make you realize the sanctity of such a pledge.' 'and if i do realize, and yet refuse?' 'then god' 'which god? my husband has a god which i care not to worship. there must be many such.' 'child! unsay those words! ah! you do not mean them. i understand. i, too, have had such moments.' for an instant he was back in his native france, and a wistful, sad-eyed face came as a mist between him and the woman before him. 'then, father, has my god forsaken me? i am not wicked above women. my misery with him has been great. why should it be greater? why shall i not grasp at happiness? i cannot, will not, go back to him!' 'rather is your god forsaken. return. throw your burden upon him, and the darkness shall be lifted. o my child,--' 'no; it is useless; i have made my bed and so shall i lie. i will go on. and if god punishes me, i shall bear it somehow. you do not understand. you are not a woman.' 'my mother was a woman.' 'but--' 'and christ was born of a woman.' she did not answer. a silence fell. wharton pulled his mustache impatiently and kept an eye on the trail. grace leaned her elbow on the table, her face set with resolve. the smile had died away. father roubeau shifted his ground. 'you have children?' 'at one time i wished--but now--no. and i am thankful.' 'and a mother?' 'yes.' 'she loves you?' 'yes.' her replies were whispers. 'and a brother?--no matter, he is a man. but a sister?' her head drooped a quavering 'yes.' 'younger? very much?' 'seven years.' 'and you have thought well about this matter? about them? about your mother? and your sister? she stands on the threshold of her woman's life, and this wildness of yours may mean much to her. could you go before her, look upon her fresh young face, hold her hand in yours, or touch your cheek to hers?' to his words, her brain formed vivid images, till she cried out, 'don't! don't!' and shrank away as do the wolf-dogs from the lash. 'but you must face all this; and better it is to do it now.' in his eyes, which she could not see, there was a great compassion, but his face, tense and quivering, showed no relenting. she raised her head from the table, forced back the tears, struggled for control. 'i shall go away. they will never see me, and come to forget me. i shall be to them as dead. and--and i will go with clyde--today.' it seemed final. wharton stepped forward, but the priest waved him back. 'you have wished for children?' a silent 'yes.' 'and prayed for them?' 'often.' 'and have you thought, if you should have children?' father roubeau's eyes rested for a moment on the man by the window. a quick light shot across her face. then the full import dawned upon her. she raised her hand appealingly, but he went on. 'can you picture an innocent babe in your arms? a boy? the world is not so hard upon a girl. why, your very breast would turn to gall! and you could be proud and happy of your boy, as you looked on other children?--' 'o, have pity! hush!' 'a scapegoat--' 'don't! don't! i will go back!' she was at his feet. 'a child to grow up with no thought of evil, and one day the world to fling a tender name in his face. a child to look back and curse you from whose loins he sprang!' 'o my god! my god!' she groveled on the floor. the priest sighed and raised her to her feet. wharton pressed forward, but she motioned him away. 'don't come near me, clyde! i am going back!' the tears were coursing pitifully down her face, but she made no effort to wipe them away. 'after all this? you cannot! i will not let you!' 'don't touch me!' she shivered and drew back. 'i will! you are mine! do you hear? you are mine!' then he whirled upon the priest. 'o what a fool i was to ever let you wag your silly tongue! thank your god you are not a common man, for i'd--but the priestly prerogative must be exercised, eh? well, you have exercised it. now get out of my house, or i'll forget who and what you are!' father roubeau bowed, took her hand, and started for the door. but wharton cut them off. 'grace! you said you loved me?' 'i did.' 'and you do now?' 'i do.' 'say it again.' 'i do love you, clyde; i do.' 'there, you priest!' he cried. 'you have heard it, and with those words on her lips you would send her back to live a lie and a hell with that man?' but father roubeau whisked the woman into the inner room and closed the door. 'no words!' he whispered to wharton, as he struck a casual posture on a stool. 'remember, for her sake,' he added. the room echoed to a rough knock at the door; the latch raised and edwin bentham stepped in. 'seen anything of my wife?' he asked as soon as salutations had been exchanged. two heads nodded negatively. 'i saw her tracks down from the cabin,' he continued tentatively, 'and they broke off, just opposite here, on the main trail.' his listeners looked bored. 'and i--i thought--' 'she was here!' thundered wharton. the priest silenced him with a look. 'did you see her tracks leading up to this cabin, my son?' wily father roubeau--he had taken good care to obliterate them as he came up the same path an hour before. 'i didn't stop to look, i--' his eyes rested suspiciously on the door to the other room, then interrogated the priest. the latter shook his head; but the doubt seemed to linger. father roubeau breathed a swift, silent prayer, and rose to his feet. 'if you doubt me, why--' he made as though to open the door. a priest could not lie. edwin bentham had heard this often, and believed it. 'of course not, father,' he interposed hurriedly. 'i was only wondering where my wife had gone, and thought maybe--i guess she's up at mrs. stanton's on french gulch. nice weather, isn't it? heard the news? flour's gone down to forty dollars a hundred, and they say the che-cha-quas are flocking down the river in droves. 'but i must be going; so good-by.' the door slammed, and from the window they watched him take his guest up french gulch. a few weeks later, just after the june high-water, two men shot a canoe into mid-stream and made fast to a derelict pine. this tightened the painter and jerked the frail craft along as would a tow-boat. father roubeau had been directed to leave the upper country and return to his swarthy children at minook. the white men had come among them, and they were devoting too little time to fishing, and too much to a certain deity whose transient habitat was in countless black bottles. malemute kid also had business in the lower country, so they journeyed together. but one, in all the northland, knew the man paul roubeau, and that man was malemute kid. before him alone did the priest cast off the sacerdotal garb and stand naked. and why not? these two men knew each other. had they not shared the last morsel of fish, the last pinch of tobacco, the last and inmost thought, on the barren stretches of bering sea, in the heartbreaking mazes of the great delta, on the terrible winter journey from point barrow to the porcupine? father roubeau puffed heavily at his trail-worn pipe, and gazed on the reddisked sun, poised somberly on the edge of the northern horizon. malemute kid wound up his watch. it was midnight. 'cheer up, old man!' the kid was evidently gathering up a broken thread. 'god surely will forgive such a lie. let me give you the word of a man who strikes a true note: if she have spoken a word, remember thy lips are sealed, and the brand of the dog is upon him by whom is the secret revealed. if there be trouble to herward, and a lie of the blackest can clear, lie, while thy lips can move or a man is alive to hear.' father roubeau removed his pipe and reflected. 'the man speaks true, but my soul is not vexed with that. the lie and the penance stand with god; but--but--' 'what then? your hands are clean.' 'not so. kid, i have thought much, and yet the thing remains. i knew, and made her go back.' the clear note of a robin rang out from the wooden bank, a partridge drummed the call in the distance, a moose lunged noisily in the eddy; but the twain smoked on in silence. the wisdom of the trail sitka charley had achieved the impossible. other indians might have known as much of the wisdom of the trail as he did; but he alone knew the white man's wisdom, the honor of the trail, and the law. but these things had not come to him in a day. the aboriginal mind is slow to generalize, and many facts, repeated often, are required to compass an understanding. sitka charley, from boyhood, had been thrown continually with white men, and as a man he had elected to cast his fortunes with them, expatriating himself, once and for all, from his own people. even then, respecting, almost venerating their power, and pondering over it, he had yet to divine its secret essence--the honor and the law. and it was only by the cumulative evidence of years that he had finally come to understand. being an alien, when he did know, he knew it better than the white man himself; being an indian, he had achieved the impossible. and of these things had been bred a certain contempt for his own people--a contempt which he had made it a custom to conceal, but which now burst forth in a polyglot whirlwind of curses upon the heads of kah-chucte and gowhee. they cringed before him like a brace of snarling wolf dogs, too cowardly to spring, too wolfish to cover their fangs. they were not handsome creatures. neither was sitka charley. all three were frightful-looking. there was no flesh to their faces; their cheekbones were massed with hideous scabs which had cracked and frozen alternately under the intense frost; while their eyes burned luridly with the light which is born of desperation and hunger. men so situated, beyond the pale of the honor and the law, are not to be trusted. sitka charley knew this; and this was why he had forced them to abandon their rifles with the rest of the camp outfit ten days before. his rifle and captain eppingwell's were the only ones that remained. 'come, get a fire started,' he commanded, drawing out the precious matchbox with its attendant strips of dry birchbark. the two indians fell sullenly to the task of gathering dead branches and underwood. they were weak and paused often, catching themselves, in the act of stooping, with giddy motions, or staggering to the center of operations with their knees shaking like castanets. after each trip they rested for a moment, as though sick and deadly weary. at times their eyes took on the patient stoicism of dumb suffering; and again the ego seemed almost burst forth with its wild cry, 'i, i, i want to exist!'--the dominant note of the whole living universe. a light breath of air blew from the south, nipping the exposed portions of their bodies and driving the frost, in needles of fire, through fur and flesh to the bones. so, when the fire had grown lusty and thawed a damp circle in the snow about it, sitka charley forced his reluctant comrades to lend a hand in pitching a fly. it was a primitive affair, merely a blanket stretched parallel with the fire and to windward of it, at an angle of perhaps forty-five degrees. this shut out the chill wind and threw the heat backward and down upon those who were to huddle in its shelter. then a layer of green spruce boughs were spread, that their bodies might not come in contact with the snow. when this task was completed, kah-chucte and gowhee proceeded to take care of their feet. their icebound moccasins were sadly worn by much travel, and the sharp ice of the river jams had cut them to rags. their siwash socks were similarly conditioned, and when these had been thawed and removed, the dead-white tips of the toes, in the various stages of mortification, told their simple tale of the trail. leaving the two to the drying of their footgear, sitka charley turned back over the course he had come. he, too, had a mighty longing to sit by the fire and tend his complaining flesh, but the honor and the law forbade. he toiled painfully over the frozen field, each step a protest, every muscle in revolt. several times, where the open water between the jams had recently crusted, he was forced to miserably accelerate his movements as the fragile footing swayed and threatened beneath him. in such places death was quick and easy; but it was not his desire to endure no more. his deepening anxiety vanished as two indians dragged into view round a bend in the river. they staggered and panted like men under heavy burdens; yet the packs on their backs were a matter of but a few pounds. he questioned them eagerly, and their replies seemed to relieve him. he hurried on. next came two white men, supporting between them a woman. they also behaved as though drunken, and their limbs shook with weakness. but the woman leaned lightly upon them, choosing to carry herself forward with her own strength. at the sight of her a flash of joy cast its fleeting light across sitka charley's face. he cherished a very great regard for mrs. eppingwell. he had seen many white women, but this was the first to travel the trail with him. when captain eppingwell proposed the hazardous undertaking and made him an offer for his services, he had shaken his head gravely; for it was an unknown journey through the dismal vastnesses of the northland, and he knew it to be of the kind that try to the uttermost the souls of men. but when he learned that the captain's wife was to accompany them, he had refused flatly to have anything further to do with it. had it been a woman of his own race he would have harbored no objections; but these women of the southland--no, no, they were too soft, too tender, for such enterprises. sitka charley did not know this kind of woman. five minutes before, he did not even dream of taking charge of the expedition; but when she came to him with her wonderful smile and her straight clean english, and talked to the point, without pleading or persuading, he had incontinently yielded. had there been a softness and appeal to mercy in the eyes, a tremble to the voice, a taking advantage of sex, he would have stiffened to steel; instead her clear-searching eyes and clear-ringing voice, her utter frankness and tacit assumption of equality, had robbed him of his reason. he felt, then, that this was a new breed of woman; and ere they had been trail mates for many days he knew why the sons of such women mastered the land and the sea, and why the sons of his own womankind could not prevail against them. tender and soft! day after day he watched her, muscle-weary, exhausted, indomitable, and the words beat in upon him in a perennial refrain. tender and soft! he knew her feet had been born to easy paths and sunny lands, strangers to the moccasined pain of the north, unkissed by the chill lips of the frost, and he watched and marveled at them twinkling ever through the weary day. she had always a smile and a word of cheer, from which not even the meanest packer was excluded. as the way grew darker she seemed to stiffen and gather greater strength, and when kah-chucte and gowhee, who had bragged that they knew every landmark of the way as a child did the skin bails of the tepee, acknowledged that they knew not where they were, it was she who raised a forgiving voice amid the curses of the men. she had sung to them that night till they felt the weariness fall from them and were ready to face the future with fresh hope. and when the food failed and each scant stint was measured jealously, she it was who rebelled against the machinations of her husband and sitka charley, and demanded and received a share neither greater nor less than that of the others. sitka charley was proud to know this woman. a new richness, a greater breadth, had come into his life with her presence. hitherto he had been his own mentor, had turned to right or left at no man's beck; he had moulded himself according to his own dictates, nourished his manhood regardless of all save his own opinion. for the first time he had felt a call from without for the best that was in him, just a glance of appreciation from the clear-searching eyes, a word of thanks from the clear-ringing voice, just a slight wreathing of the lips in the wonderful smile, and he walked with the gods for hours to come. it was a new stimulant to his manhood; for the first time he thrilled with a conscious pride in his wisdom of the trail; and between the twain they ever lifted the sinking hearts of their comrades. the faces of the two men and the woman brightened as they saw him, for after all he was the staff they leaned upon. but sitka charley, rigid as was his wont, concealing pain and pleasure impartially beneath an iron exterior, asked them the welfare of the rest, told the distance to the fire, and continued on the back-trip. next he met a single indian, unburdened, limping, lips compressed, and eyes set with the pain of a foot in which the quick fought a losing battle with the dead. all possible care had been taken of him, but in the last extremity the weak and unfortunate must perish, and sitka charley deemed his days to be few. the man could not keep up for long, so he gave him rough cheering words. after that came two more indians, to whom he had allotted the task of helping along joe, the third white man of the party. they had deserted him. sitka charley saw at a glance the lurking spring in their bodies, and knew they had at last cast off his mastery. so he was not taken unawares when he ordered them back in quest of their abandoned charge, and saw the gleam of the hunting knives that they drew from the sheaths. a pitiful spectacle, three weak men lifting their puny strength in the face of the mighty vastness; but the two recoiled under the fierce rifle blows of the one and returned like beaten dogs to the leash. two hours later, with joe reeling between them and sitka charley bringing up the rear, they came to the fire, where the remainder of the expedition crouched in the shelter of the fly. 'a few words, my comrades, before we sleep,' sitka charley said after they had devoured their slim rations of unleavened bread. he was speaking to the indians in their own tongue, having already given the import to the whites. 'a few words, my comrades, for your own good, that ye may yet perchance live. i shall give you the law; on his own head by the death of him that breaks it. we have passed the hills of silence, and we now travel the head reaches of the stuart. it may be one sleep, it may be several, it may be many sleeps, but in time we shall come among the men of the yukon, who have much grub. it were well that we look to the law. today kah-chucte and gowhee, whom i commanded to break trail, forgot they were men, and like frightened children ran away. 'true, they forgot; so let us forget. but hereafter, let them remember. if it should happen they do not...' he touched his rifle carelessly, grimly. 'tomorrow they shall carry the flour and see that the white man joe lies not down by the trail. the cups of flour are counted; should so much as an ounce be wanting at nightfall... do ye understand? today there were others that forgot. moose head and three salmon left the white man joe to lie in the snow. let them forget no more. with the light of day shall they go forth and break trail. ye have heard the law. look well, lest ye break it.' sitka charley found it beyond him to keep the line close up. from moose head and three salmon, who broke trail in advance, to kah-chucte, gowhee, and joe, it straggled out over a mile. each staggered, fell or rested as he saw fit. the line of march was a progression through a chain of irregular halts. each drew upon the last remnant of his strength and stumbled onward till it was expended, but in some miraculous way there was always another last remnant. each time a man fell it was with the firm belief that he would rise no more; yet he did rise, and again and again. the flesh yielded, the will conquered; but each triumph was a tragedy. the indian with the frozen foot, no longer erect, crawled forward on hand and knee. he rarely rested, for he knew the penalty exacted by the frost. even mrs. eppingwell's lips were at last set in a stony smile, and her eyes, seeing, saw not. often she stopped, pressing a mittened hand to her heart, gasping and dizzy. joe, the white man, had passed beyond the stage of suffering. he no longer begged to be let alone, prayed to die; but was soothed and content under the anodyne of delirium. kah-chucte and gowhee dragged him on roughly, venting upon him many a savage glance or blow. to them it was the acme of injustice. their hearts were bitter with hate, heavy with fear. why should they cumber their strength with his weakness? to do so meant death; not to do so--and they remembered the law of sitka charley, and the rifle. joe fell with greater frequency as the daylight waned, and so hard was he to raise that they dropped farther and farther behind. sometimes all three pitched into the snow, so weak had the indians become. yet on their backs was life, and strength, and warmth. within the flour sacks were all the potentialities of existence. they could not but think of this, and it was not strange, that which came to pass. they had fallen by the side of a great timber jam where a thousand cords of firewood waited the match. near by was an air hole through the ice. kah-chucte looked on the wood and the water, as did gowhee; then they looked at each other. never a word was spoken. gowhee struck a fire; kah-chucte filled a tin cup with water and heated it; joe babbled of things in another land, in a tongue they did not understand. they mixed flour with the warm water till it was a thin paste, and of this they drank many cups. they did not offer any to joe; but he did not mind. he did not mind anything, not even his moccasins, which scorched and smoked among the coals. a crystal mist of snow fell about them, softly, caressingly, wrapping them in clinging robes of white. and their feet would have yet trod many trails had not destiny brushed the clouds aside and cleared the air. nay, ten minutes' delay would have been salvation. sitka charley, looking back, saw the pillared smoke of their fire, and guessed. and he looked ahead at those who were faithful, and at mrs. eppingwell. 'so, my good comrades, ye have again forgotten that you were men? good! very good. there will be fewer bellies to feed.' sitka charley retied the flour as he spoke, strapping the pack to the one on his own back. he kicked joe till the pain broke through the poor devil's bliss and brought him doddering to his feet. then he shoved him out upon the trail and started him on his way. the two indians attempted to slip off. 'hold, gowhee! and thou, too, kah-chucte! hath the flour given such strength to thy legs that they may outrun the swift-winged lead? think not to cheat the law. be men for the last time, and be content that ye die full-stomached. come, step up, back to the timber, shoulder to shoulder. come!' the two men obeyed, quietly, without fear; for it is the future which pressed upon the man, not the present. 'thou, gowhee, hast a wife and children and a deerskin lodge in the chipewyan. what is thy will in the matter?' 'give thou her of the goods which are mine by the word of the captain--the blankets, the beads, the tobacco, the box which makes strange sounds after the manner of the white men. say that i did die on the trail, but say not how.' 'and thou, kah-chucte, who hast nor wife nor child?' 'mine is a sister, the wife of the factor at koshim. he beats her, and she is not happy. give thou her the goods which are mine by the contract, and tell her it were well she go back to her own people. shouldst thou meet the man, and be so minded, it were a good deed that he should die. he beats her, and she is afraid.' 'are ye content to die by the law?' 'we are.' 'then good-bye, my good comrades. may ye sit by the well-filled pot, in warm lodges, ere the day is done.' as he spoke he raised his rifle, and many echoes broke the silence. hardly had they died away when other rifles spoke in the distance. sitka charley started. there had been more than one shot, yet there was but one other rifle in the party. he gave a fleeting glance at the men who lay so quietly, smiled viciously at the wisdom of the trail, and hurried on to meet the men of the yukon. the wife of a king once when the northland was very young, the social and civic virtues were remarkably alike for their paucity and their simplicity. when the burden of domestic duties grew grievous, and the fireside mood expanded to a constant protest against its bleak loneliness, the adventurers from the southland, in lieu of better, paid the stipulated prices and took unto themselves native wives. it was a foretaste of paradise to the women, for it must be confessed that the white rovers gave far better care and treatment of them than did their indian copartners. of course, the white men themselves were satisfied with such deals, as were also the indian men for that matter. having sold their daughters and sisters for cotton blankets and obsolete rifles and traded their warm furs for flimsy calico and bad whisky, the sons of the soil promptly and cheerfully succumbed to quick consumption and other swift diseases correlated with the blessings of a superior civilization. it was in these days of arcadian simplicity that cal galbraith journeyed through the land and fell sick on the lower river. it was a refreshing advent in the lives of the good sisters of the holy cross, who gave him shelter and medicine; though they little dreamed of the hot elixir infused into his veins by the touch of their soft hands and their gentle ministrations. cal galbraith, became troubled with strange thoughts which clamored for attention till he laid eyes on the mission girl, madeline. yet he gave no sign, biding his time patiently. he strengthened with the coming spring, and when the sun rode the heavens in a golden circle, and the joy and throb of life was in all the land, he gathered his still weak body together and departed. now, madeline, the mission girl, was an orphan. her white father had failed to give a bald-faced grizzly the trail one day, and had died quickly. then her indian mother, having no man to fill the winter cache, had tried the hazardous experiment of waiting till the salmon-run on fifty pounds of flour and half as many of bacon. after that, the baby, chook-ra, went to live with the good sisters, and to be thenceforth known by another name. but madeline still had kinsfolk, the nearest being a dissolute uncle who outraged his vitals with inordinate quantities of the white man's whisky. he strove daily to walk with the gods, and incidentally, his feet sought shorter trails to the grave. when sober he suffered exquisite torture. he had no conscience. to this ancient vagabond cal galbraith duly presented himself, and they consumed many words and much tobacco in the conversation that followed. promises were also made; and in the end the old heathen took a few pounds of dried salmon and his birch-bark canoe, and paddled away to the mission of the holy cross. it is not given the world to know what promises he made and what lies he told--the sisters never gossip; but when he returned, upon his swarthy chest there was a brass crucifix, and in his canoe his niece madeline. that night there was a grand wedding and a potlach; so that for two days to follow there was no fishing done by the village. but in the morning madeline shook the dust of the lower river from her moccasins, and with her husband, in a poling-boat, went to live on the upper river in a place known as the lower country. and in the years which followed she was a good wife, sharing her husband's hardships and cooking his food. and she kept him in straight trails, till he learned to save his dust and to work mightily. in the end, he struck it rich and built a cabin in circle city; and his happiness was such that men who came to visit him in his home-circle became restless at the sight of it and envied him greatly. but the northland began to mature and social amenities to make their appearance. hitherto, the southland had sent forth its sons; but it now belched forth a new exodus--this time of its daughters. sisters and wives they were not; but they did not fail to put new ideas in the heads of the men, and to elevate the tone of things in ways peculiarly their own. no more did the squaws gather at the dances, go roaring down the center in the good, old virginia reels, or make merry with jolly 'dan tucker.' they fell back on their natural stoicism and uncomplainingly watched the rule of their white sisters from their cabins. then another exodus came over the mountains from the prolific southland. this time it was of women that became mighty in the land. their word was law; their law was steel. they frowned upon the indian wives, while the other women became mild and walked humbly. there were cowards who became ashamed of their ancient covenants with the daughters of the soil, who looked with a new distaste upon their dark-skinned children; but there were also others--men--who remained true and proud of their aboriginal vows. when it became the fashion to divorce the native wives. cal galbraith retained his manhood, and in so doing felt the heavy hand of the women who had come last, knew least, but who ruled the land. one day, the upper country, which lies far above circle city, was pronounced rich. dog-teams carried the news to salt water; golden argosies freighted the lure across the north pacific; wires and cables sang with the tidings; and the world heard for the first time of the klondike river and the yukon country. cal galbraith had lived the years quietly. he had been a good husband to madeline, and she had blessed him. but somehow discontent fell upon him; he felt vague yearnings for his own kind, for the life he had been shut out from--a general sort of desire, which men sometimes feel, to break out and taste the prime of living. besides, there drifted down the river wild rumors of the wonderful el dorado, glowing descriptions of the city of logs and tents, and ludicrous accounts of the che-cha-quas who had rushed in and were stampeding the whole country. circle city was dead. the world had moved on up river and become a new and most marvelous world. cal galbraith grew restless on the edge of things, and wished to see with his own eyes. so, after the wash-up, he weighed in a couple of hundred pounds of dust on the company's big scales, and took a draft for the same on dawson. then he put tom dixon in charge of his mines, kissed madeline good-by, promised to be back before the first mush-ice ran, and took passage on an up-river steamer. madeline waited, waited through all the three months of daylight. she fed the dogs, gave much of her time to young cal, watched the short summer fade away and the sun begin its long journey to the south. and she prayed much in the manner of the sisters of the holy cross. the fall came, and with it there was mush-ice on the yukon, and circle city kings returning to the winter's work at their mines, but no cal galbraith. tom dixon received a letter, however, for his men sledded up her winter's supply of dry pine. the company received a letter for its dogteams filled her cache with their best provisions, and she was told that her credit was limitless. through all the ages man has been held the chief instigator of the woes of woman; but in this case the men held their tongues and swore harshly at one of their number who was away, while the women failed utterly to emulate them. so, without needless delay, madeline heard strange tales of cal galbraith's doings; also, of a certain greek dancer who played with men as children did with bubbles. now madeline was an indian woman, and further, she had no woman friend to whom to go for wise counsel. she prayed and planned by turns, and that night, being quick of resolve and action, she harnessed the dogs, and with young cal securely lashed to the sled, stole away. though the yukon still ran free, the eddy-ice was growing, and each day saw the river dwindling to a slushy thread. save him who has done the like, no man may know what she endured in traveling a hundred miles on the rim-ice; nor may they understand the toil and hardship of breaking the two hundred miles of packed ice which remained after the river froze for good. but madeline was an indian woman, so she did these things, and one night there came a knock at malemute kid's door. thereat he fed a team of starving dogs, put a healthy youngster to bed, and turned his attention to an exhausted woman. he removed her icebound moccasins while he listened to her tale, and stuck the point of his knife into her feet that he might see how far they were frozen. despite his tremendous virility, malemute kid was possessed of a softer, womanly element, which could win the confidence of a snarling wolf-dog or draw confessions from the most wintry heart. nor did he seek them. hearts opened to him as spontaneously as flowers to the sun. even the priest, father roubeau, had been known to confess to him, while the men and women of the northland were ever knocking at his door--a door from which the latch-string hung always out. to madeline, he could do no wrong, make no mistake. she had known him from the time she first cast her lot among the people of her father's race; and to her half-barbaric mind it seemed that in him was centered the wisdom of the ages, that between his vision and the future there could be no intervening veil. there were false ideals in the land. the social strictures of dawson were not synonymous with those of the previous era, and the swift maturity of the northland involved much wrong. malemute kid was aware of this, and he had cal galbraith's measure accurately. he knew a hasty word was the father of much evil; besides, he was minded to teach a great lesson and bring shame upon the man. so stanley prince, the young mining expert, was called into the conference the following night as was also lucky jack harrington and his violin. that same night, bettles, who owed a great debt to malemute kid, harnessed up cal galbraith's dogs, lashed cal galbraith, junior, to the sled, and slipped away in the dark for stuart river. ii 'so; one--two--three, one--two--three. now reverse! no, no! start up again, jack. see--this way.' prince executed the movement as one should who has led the cotillion. 'now; one--two--three, one--two--three. reverse! ah! that's better. try it again. i say, you know, you mustn't look at your feet. one--two--three, one--two--three. shorter steps! you are not hanging to the gee-pole just now. try it over. 'there! that's the way. one--two--three, one--two--three.' round and round went prince and madeline in an interminable waltz. the table and stools had been shoved over against the wall to increase the room. malemute kid sat on the bunk, chin to knees, greatly interested. jack harrington sat beside him, scraping away on his violin and following the dancers. it was a unique situation, the undertaking of these three men with the woman. the most pathetic part, perhaps, was the businesslike way in which they went about it. no athlete was ever trained more rigidly for a coming contest, nor wolf-dog for the harness, than was she. but they had good material, for madeline, unlike most women of her race, in her childhood had escaped the carrying of heavy burdens and the toil of the trail. besides, she was a clean-limbed, willowy creature, possessed of much grace which had not hitherto been realized. it was this grace which the men strove to bring out and knock into shape. 'trouble with her she learned to dance all wrong,' prince remarked to the bunk after having deposited his breathless pupil on the table. 'she's quick at picking up; yet i could do better had she never danced a step. but say, kid, i can't understand this.' prince imitated a peculiar movement of the shoulders and head--a weakness madeline suffered from in walking. 'lucky for her she was raised in the mission,' malemute kid answered. 'packing, you know,--the head-strap. other indian women have it bad, but she didn't do any packing till after she married, and then only at first. saw hard lines with that husband of hers. they went through the forty-mile famine together.' 'but can we break it?' 'don't know. 'perhaps long walks with her trainers will make the riffle. anyway, they'll take it out some, won't they, madeline?' the girl nodded assent. if malemute kid, who knew all things, said so, why it was so. that was all there was about it. she had come over to them, anxious to begin again. harrington surveyed her in quest of her points much in the same manner men usually do horses. it certainly was not disappointing, for he asked with sudden interest, 'what did that beggarly uncle of yours get anyway?' 'one rifle, one blanket, twenty bottles of hooch. rifle broke.' she said this last scornfully, as though disgusted at how low her maiden-value had been rated. she spoke fair english, with many peculiarities of her husband's speech, but there was still perceptible the indian accent, the traditional groping after strange gutturals. even this her instructors had taken in hand, and with no small success, too. at the next intermission, prince discovered a new predicament. 'i say, kid,' he said, 'we're wrong, all wrong. she can't learn in moccasins. 'put her feet into slippers, and then onto that waxed floor--phew!' madeline raised a foot and regarded her shapeless house-moccasins dubiously. in previous winters, both at circle city and forty-mile, she had danced many a night away with similar footgear, and there had been nothing the matter. but now--well, if there was anything wrong it was for malemute kid to know, not her. but malemute kid did know, and he had a good eye for measures; so he put on his cap and mittens and went down the hill to pay mrs. eppingwell a call. her husband, clove eppingwell, was prominent in the community as one of the great government officials. the kid had noted her slender little foot one night, at the governor's ball. and as he also knew her to be as sensible as she was pretty, it was no task to ask of her a certain small favor. on his return, madeline withdrew for a moment to the inner room. when she reappeared prince was startled. 'by jove!' he gasped. 'who'd a' thought it! the little witch! why my sister--' 'is an english girl,' interrupted malemute kid, 'with an english foot. this girl comes of a small-footed race. moccasins just broadened her feet healthily, while she did not misshape them by running with the dogs in her childhood.' but this explanation failed utterly to allay prince's admiration. harrington's commercial instinct was touched, and as he looked upon the exquisitely turned foot and ankle, there ran through his mind the sordid list--'one rifle, one blanket, twenty bottles of hooch.' madeline was the wife of a king, a king whose yellow treasure could buy outright a score of fashion's puppets; yet in all her life her feet had known no gear save red-tanned moosehide. at first she had looked in awe at the tiny white-satin slippers; but she had quickly understood the admiration which shone, manlike, in the eyes of the men. her face flushed with pride. for the moment she was drunken with her woman's loveliness; then she murmured, with increased scorn, 'and one rifle, broke!' so the training went on. every day malemute kid led the girl out on long walks devoted to the correction of her carriage and the shortening of her stride. there was little likelihood of her identity being discovered, for cal galbraith and the rest of the old-timers were like lost children among the many strangers who had rushed into the land. besides, the frost of the north has a bitter tongue, and the tender women of the south, to shield their cheeks from its biting caresses, were prone to the use of canvas masks. with faces obscured and bodies lost in squirrel-skin parkas, a mother and daughter, meeting on trail, would pass as strangers. the coaching progressed rapidly. at first it had been slow, but later a sudden acceleration had manifested itself. this began from the moment madeline tried on the white-satin slippers, and in so doing found herself. the pride of her renegade father, apart from any natural self-esteem she might possess, at that instant received its birth. hitherto, she had deemed herself a woman of an alien breed, of inferior stock, purchased by her lord's favor. her husband had seemed to her a god, who had lifted her, through no essential virtues on her part, to his own godlike level. but she had never forgotten, even when young cal was born, that she was not of his people. as he had been a god, so had his womenkind been goddesses. she might have contrasted herself with them, but she had never compared. it might have been that familiarity bred contempt; however, be that as it may, she had ultimately come to understand these roving white men, and to weigh them. true, her mind was dark to deliberate analysis, but she yet possessed her woman's clarity of vision in such matters. on the night of the slippers she had measured the bold, open admiration of her three man-friends; and for the first time comparison had suggested itself. it was only a foot and an ankle, but--but comparison could not, in the nature of things, cease at that point. she judged herself by their standards till the divinity of her white sisters was shattered. after all, they were only women, and why should she not exalt herself to their midst? in doing these things she learned where she lacked and with the knowledge of her weakness came her strength. and so mightily did she strive that her three trainers often marveled late into the night over the eternal mystery of woman. in this way thanksgiving night drew near. at irregular intervals bettles sent word down from stuart river regarding the welfare of young cal. the time of their return was approaching. more than once a casual caller, hearing dance-music and the rhythmic pulse of feet, entered, only to find harrington scraping away and the other two beating time or arguing noisily over a mooted step. madeline was never in evidence, having precipitately fled to the inner room. on one of these nights cal galbraith dropped in. encouraging news had just come down from stuart river, and madeline had surpassed herself--not in walk alone, and carriage and grace, but in womanly roguishness. they had indulged in sharp repartee and she had defended herself brilliantly; and then, yielding to the intoxication of the moment, and of her own power, she had bullied, and mastered, and wheedled, and patronized them with most astonishing success. and instinctively, involuntarily, they had bowed, not to her beauty, her wisdom, her wit, but to that indefinable something in woman to which man yields yet cannot name. the room was dizzy with sheer delight as she and prince whirled through the last dance of the evening. harrington was throwing in inconceivable flourishes, while malemute kid, utterly abandoned, had seized the broom and was executing mad gyrations on his own account. at this instant the door shook with a heavy rap-rap, and their quick glances noted the lifting of the latch. but they had survived similar situations before. harrington never broke a note. madeline shot through the waiting door to the inner room. the broom went hurtling under the bunk, and by the time cal galbraith and louis savoy got their heads in, malemute kid and prince were in each other's arms, wildly schottisching down the room. as a rule, indian women do not make a practice of fainting on provocation, but madeline came as near to it as she ever had in her life. for an hour she crouched on the floor, listening to the heavy voices of the men rumbling up and down in mimic thunder. like familiar chords of childhood melodies, every intonation, every trick of her husband's voice swept in upon her, fluttering her heart and weakening her knees till she lay half-fainting against the door. it was well she could neither see nor hear when he took his departure. 'when do you expect to go back to circle city?' malemute kid asked simply. 'haven't thought much about it,' he replied. 'don't think till after the ice breaks.' 'and madeline?' he flushed at the question, and there was a quick droop to his eyes. malemute kid could have despised him for that, had he known men less. as it was, his gorge rose against the wives and daughters who had come into the land, and not satisfied with usurping the place of the native women, had put unclean thoughts in the heads of the men and made them ashamed. 'i guess she's all right,' the circle city king answered hastily, and in an apologetic manner. 'tom dixon's got charge of my interests, you know, and he sees to it that she has everything she wants.' malemute kid laid hand upon his arm and hushed him suddenly. they had stepped without. overhead, the aurora, a gorgeous wanton, flaunted miracles of color; beneath lay the sleeping town. far below, a solitary dog gave tongue. the king again began to speak, but the kid pressed his hand for silence. the sound multiplied. dog after dog took up the strain till the full-throated chorus swayed the night. to him who hears for the first time this weird song, is told the first and greatest secret of the northland; to him who has heard it often, it is the solemn knell of lost endeavor. it is the plaint of tortured souls, for in it is invested the heritage of the north, the suffering of countless generations--the warning and the requiem to the world's estrays. cal galbraith shivered slightly as it died away in half-caught sobs. the kid read his thoughts openly, and wandered back with him through all the weary days of famine and disease; and with him was also the patient madeline, sharing his pains and perils, never doubting, never complaining. his mind's retina vibrated to a score of pictures, stern, clear-cut, and the hand of the past drew back with heavy fingers on his heart. it was the psychological moment. malemute kid was half-tempted to play his reserve card and win the game; but the lesson was too mild as yet, and he let it pass. the next instant they had gripped hands, and the king's beaded moccasins were drawing protests from the outraged snow as he crunched down the hill. madeline in collapse was another woman to the mischievous creature of an hour before, whose laughter had been so infectious and whose heightened color and flashing eyes had made her teachers for the while forget. weak and nerveless, she sat in the chair just as she had been dropped there by prince and harrington. malemute kid frowned. this would never do. when the time of meeting her husband came to hand, she must carry things off with high-handed imperiousness. it was very necessary she should do it after the manner of white women, else the victory would be no victory at all. so he talked to her, sternly, without mincing of words, and initiated her into the weaknesses of his own sex, till she came to understand what simpletons men were after all, and why the word of their women was law. a few days before thanksgiving night, malemute kid made another call on mrs. eppingwell. she promptly overhauled her feminine fripperies, paid a protracted visit to the dry-goods department of the p. c. company, and returned with the kid to make madeline's acquaintance. after that came a period such as the cabin had never seen before, and what with cutting, and fitting, and basting, and stitching, and numerous other wonderful and unknowable things, the male conspirators were more often banished the premises than not. at such times the opera house opened its double storm-doors to them. so often did they put their heads together, and so deeply did they drink to curious toasts, that the loungers scented unknown creeks of incalculable richness, and it is known that several checha-quas and at least one old-timer kept their stampeding packs stored behind the bar, ready to hit the trail at a moment's notice. mrs. eppingwell was a woman of capacity; so, when she turned madeline over to her trainers on thanksgiving night she was so transformed that they were almost afraid of her. prince wrapped a hudson bay blanket about her with a mock reverence more real than feigned, while malemute kid, whose arm she had taken, found it a severe trial to resume his wonted mentorship. harrington, with the list of purchases still running through his head, dragged along in the rear, nor opened his mouth once all the way down into the town. when they came to the back door of the opera house they took the blanket from madeline's shoulders and spread it on the snow. slipping out of prince's moccasins, she stepped upon it in new satin slippers. the masquerade was at its height. she hesitated, but they jerked open the door and shoved her in. then they ran around to come in by the front entrance. iii 'where is freda?' the old-timers questioned, while the che-cha-quas were equally energetic in asking who freda was. the ballroom buzzed with her name. it was on everybody's lips. grizzled 'sour-dough boys,' day-laborers at the mines but proud of their degree, either patronized the spruce-looking tenderfeet and lied eloquently--the 'sour-dough boys' being specially created to toy with truth--or gave them savage looks of indignation because of their ignorance. perhaps forty kings of the upper and lower countries were on the floor, each deeming himself hot on the trail and sturdily backing his judgment with the yellow dust of the realm. an assistant was sent to the man at the scales, upon whom had fallen the burden of weighing up the sacks, while several of the gamblers, with the rules of chance at their finger-ends, made up alluring books on the field and favorites. which was freda? time and again the 'greek dancer' was thought to have been discovered, but each discovery brought panic to the betting ring and a frantic registering of new wagers by those who wished to hedge. malemute kid took an interest in the hunt, his advent being hailed uproariously by the revelers, who knew him to a man. the kid had a good eye for the trick of a step, and ear for the lilt of a voice, and his private choice was a marvelous creature who scintillated as the 'aurora borealis.' but the greek dancer was too subtle for even his penetration. the majority of the gold-hunters seemed to have centered their verdict on the 'russian princess,' who was the most graceful in the room, and hence could be no other than freda moloof. during a quadrille a roar of satisfaction went up. she was discovered. at previous balls, in the figure, 'all hands round,' freda had displayed an inimitable step and variation peculiarly her own. as the figure was called, the 'russian princess' gave the unique rhythm to limb and body. a chorus of i-told-you-so's shook the squared roof-beams, when lo! it was noticed that 'aurora borealis' and another masque, the 'spirit of the pole,' were performing the same trick equally well. and when two twin 'sun-dogs' and a 'frost queen' followed suit, a second assistant was dispatched to the aid of the man at the scales. bettles came off trail in the midst of the excitement, descending upon them in a hurricane of frost. his rimed brows turned to cataracts as he whirled about; his mustache, still frozen, seemed gemmed with diamonds and turned the light in varicolored rays; while the flying feet slipped on the chunks of ice which rattled from his moccasins and german socks. a northland dance is quite an informal affair, the men of the creeks and trails having lost whatever fastidiousness they might have at one time possessed; and only in the high official circles are conventions at all observed. here, caste carried no significance. millionaires and paupers, dog-drivers and mounted policemen joined hands with 'ladies in the center,' and swept around the circle performing most remarkable capers. primitive in their pleasure, boisterous and rough, they displayed no rudeness, but rather a crude chivalry more genuine than the most polished courtesy. in his quest for the 'greek dancer,' cal galbraith managed to get into the same set with the 'russian princess,' toward whom popular suspicion had turned. but by the time he had guided her through one dance, he was willing not only to stake his millions that she was not freda, but that he had had his arm about her waist before. when or where he could not tell, but the puzzling sense of familiarity so wrought upon him that he turned his attention to the discovery of her identity. malemute kid might have aided him instead of occasionally taking the princess for a few turns and talking earnestly to her in low tones. but it was jack harrington who paid the 'russian princess' the most assiduous court. once he drew cal galbraith aside and hazarded wild guesses as to who she was, and explained to him that he was going in to win. that rankled the circle city king, for man is not by nature monogamic, and he forgot both madeline and freda in the new quest. it was soon noised about that the 'russian princess' was not freda moloof. interest deepened. here was a fresh enigma. they knew freda though they could not find her, but here was somebody they had found and did not know. even the women could not place her, and they knew every good dancer in the camp. many took her for one of the official clique, indulging in a silly escapade. not a few asserted she would disappear before the unmasking. others were equally positive that she was the woman-reporter of the kansas city star, come to write them up at ninety dollars per column. and the men at the scales worked busily. at one o'clock every couple took to the floor. the unmasking began amid laughter and delight, like that of carefree children. there was no end of oh's and ah's as mask after mask was lifted. the scintillating 'aurora borealis' became the brawny negress whose income from washing the community's clothes ran at about five hundred a month. the twin 'sun-dogs' discovered mustaches on their upper lips, and were recognized as brother fraction-kings of el dorado. in one of the most prominent sets, and the slowest in uncovering, was cal galbraith with the 'spirit of the pole.' opposite him was jack harrington and the 'russian princess.' the rest had discovered themselves, yet the 'greek dancer' was still missing. all eyes were upon the group. cal galbraith, in response to their cries, lifted his partner's mask. freda's wonderful face and brilliant eyes flashed out upon them. a roar went up, to be squelched suddenly in the new and absorbing mystery of the 'russian princess.' her face was still hidden, and jack harrington was struggling with her. the dancers tittered on the tiptoes of expectancy. he crushed her dainty costume roughly, and then--and then the revelers exploded. the joke was on them. they had danced all night with a tabooed native woman. but those that knew, and they were many, ceased abruptly, and a hush fell upon the room. cal galbraith crossed over with great strides, angrily, and spoke to madeline in polyglot chinook. but she retained her composure, apparently oblivious to the fact that she was the cynosure of all eyes, and answered him in english. she showed neither fright nor anger, and malemute kid chuckled at her well-bred equanimity. the king felt baffled, defeated; his common siwash wife had passed beyond him. 'come!' he said finally. 'come on home.' 'i beg pardon,' she replied; 'i have agreed to go to supper with mr. harrington. besides, there's no end of dances promised.' harrington extended his arm to lead her away. he evinced not the slightest disinclination toward showing his back, but malemute kid had by this time edged in closer. the circle city king was stunned. twice his hand dropped to his belt, and twice the kid gathered himself to spring; but the retreating couple passed through the supper-room door where canned oysters were spread at five dollars the plate. the crowd sighed audibly, broke up into couples, and followed them. freda pouted and went in with cal galbraith; but she had a good heart and a sure tongue, and she spoiled his oysters for him. what she said is of no importance, but his face went red and white at intervals, and he swore repeatedly and savagely at himself. the supper-room was filled with a pandemonium of voices, which ceased suddenly as cal galbraith stepped over to his wife's table. since the unmasking considerable weights of dust had been placed as to the outcome. everybody watched with breathless interest. harrington's blue eyes were steady, but under the overhanging tablecloth a smith & wesson balanced on his knee. madeline looked up, casually, with little interest. 'may--may i have the next round dance with you?' the king stuttered. the wife of the king glanced at her card and inclined her head. an odyssey of the north the sleds were singing their eternal lament to the creaking of the harness and the tinkling bells of the leaders; but the men and dogs were tired and made no sound. the trail was heavy with new-fallen snow, and they had come far, and the runners, burdened with flint-like quarters of frozen moose, clung tenaciously to the unpacked surface and held back with a stubbornness almost human. darkness was coming on, but there was no camp to pitch that night. the snow fell gently through the pulseless air, not in flakes, but in tiny frost crystals of delicate design. it was very warm--barely ten below zero--and the men did not mind. meyers and bettles had raised their ear flaps, while malemute kid had even taken off his mittens. the dogs had been fagged out early in the after noon, but they now began to show new vigor. among the more astute there was a certain restlessness--an impatience at the restraint of the traces, an indecisive quickness of movement, a sniffing of snouts and pricking of ears. these became incensed at their more phlegmatic brothers, urging them on with numerous sly nips on their hinder quarters. those, thus chidden, also contracted and helped spread the contagion. at last the leader of the foremost sled uttered a sharp whine of satisfaction, crouching lower in the snow and throwing himself against the collar. the rest followed suit. there was an ingathering of back hands, a tightening of traces; the sleds leaped forward, and the men clung to the gee poles, violently accelerating the uplift of their feet that they might escape going under the runners. the weariness of the day fell from them, and they whooped encouragement to the dogs. the animals responded with joyous yelps. they were swinging through the gathering darkness at a rattling gallop. 'gee! gee!' the men cried, each in turn, as their sleds abruptly left the main trail, heeling over on single runners like luggers on the wind. then came a hundred yards' dash to the lighted parchment window, which told its own story of the home cabin, the roaring yukon stove, and the steaming pots of tea. but the home cabin had been invaded. threescore huskies chorused defiance, and as many furry forms precipitated themselves upon the dogs which drew the first sled. the door was flung open, and a man, clad in the scarlet tunic of the northwest police, waded knee-deep among the furious brutes, calmly and impartially dispensing soothing justice with the butt end of a dog whip. after that the men shook hands; and in this wise was malemute kid welcomed to his own cabin by a stranger. stanley prince, who should have welcomed him, and who was responsible for the yukon stove and hot tea aforementioned, was busy with his guests. there were a dozen or so of them, as nondescript a crowd as ever served the queen in the enforcement of her laws or the delivery of her mails. they were of many breeds, but their common life had formed of them a certain type--a lean and wiry type, with trail-hardened muscles, and sun-browned faces, and untroubled souls which gazed frankly forth, clear-eyed and steady. they drove the dogs of the queen, wrought fear in the hearts of her enemies, ate of her meager fare, and were happy. they had seen life, and done deeds, and lived romances; but they did not know it. and they were very much at home. two of them were sprawled upon malemute kid's bunk, singing chansons which their french forebears sang in the days when first they entered the northwest land and mated with its indian women. bettles' bunk had suffered a similar invasion, and three or four lusty voyageurs worked their toes among its blankets as they listened to the tale of one who had served on the boat brigade with wolseley when he fought his way to khartoum. and when he tired, a cowboy told of courts and kings and lords and ladies he had seen when buffalo bill toured the capitals of europe. in a corner two half-breeds, ancient comrades in a lost campaign, mended harnesses and talked of the days when the northwest flamed with insurrection and louis riel was king. rough jests and rougher jokes went up and down, and great hazards by trail and river were spoken of in the light of commonplaces, only to be recalled by virtue of some grain of humor or ludicrous happening. prince was led away by these uncrowned heroes who had seen history made, who regarded the great and the romantic as but the ordinary and the incidental in the routine of life. he passed his precious tobacco among them with lavish disregard, and rusty chains of reminiscence were loosened, and forgotten odysseys resurrected for his especial benefit. when conversation dropped and the travelers filled the last pipes and lashed their tight-rolled sleeping furs. prince fell back upon his comrade for further information. 'well, you know what the cowboy is,' malemute kid answered, beginning to unlace his moccasins; 'and it's not hard to guess the british blood in his bed partner. as for the rest, they're all children of the coureurs du bois, mingled with god knows how many other bloods. the two turning in by the door are the regulation 'breeds' or boisbrules. that lad with the worsted breech scarf--notice his eyebrows and the turn of his jaw--shows a scotchman wept in his mother's smoky tepee. and that handsome looking fellow putting the capote under his head is a french half-breed--you heard him talking; he doesn't like the two indians turning in next to him. you see, when the 'breeds' rose under the riel the full-bloods kept the peace, and they've not lost much love for one another since.' 'but i say, what's that glum-looking fellow by the stove? i'll swear he can't talk english. he hasn't opened his mouth all night.' 'you're wrong. he knows english well enough. did you follow his eyes when he listened? i did. but he's neither kith nor kin to the others. when they talked their own patois you could see he didn't understand. i've been wondering myself what he is. let's find out.' 'fire a couple of sticks into the stove!' malemute kid commanded, raising his voice and looking squarely at the man in question. he obeyed at once. 'had discipline knocked into him somewhere.' prince commented in a low tone. malemute kid nodded, took off his socks, and picked his way among recumbent men to the stove. there he hung his damp footgear among a score or so of mates. 'when do you expect to get to dawson?' he asked tentatively. the man studied him a moment before replying. 'they say seventy-five mile. so? maybe two days.' the very slightest accent was perceptible, while there was no awkward hesitancy or groping for words. 'been in the country before?' 'no.' 'northwest territory?' 'yes.' 'born there?' 'no.' 'well, where the devil were you born? you're none of these.' malemute kid swept his hand over the dog drivers, even including the two policemen who had turned into prince's bunk. 'where did you come from? i've seen faces like yours before, though i can't remember just where.' 'i know you,' he irrelevantly replied, at once turning the drift of malemute kid's questions. 'where? ever see me?' 'no; your partner, him priest, pastilik, long time ago. him ask me if i see you, malemute kid. him give me grub. i no stop long. you hear him speak 'bout me?' 'oh! you're the fellow that traded the otter skins for the dogs?' the man nodded, knocked out his pipe, and signified his disinclination for conversation by rolling up in his furs. malemute kid blew out the slush lamp and crawled under the blankets with prince. 'well, what is he?' 'don't know--turned me off, somehow, and then shut up like a clam. 'but he's a fellow to whet your curiosity. i've heard of him. all the coast wondered about him eight years ago. sort of mysterious, you know. he came down out of the north in the dead of winter, many a thousand miles from here, skirting bering sea and traveling as though the devil were after him. no one ever learned where he came from, but he must have come far. he was badly travel-worn when he got food from the swedish missionary on golovin bay and asked the way south. we heard of all this afterward. then he abandoned the shore line, heading right across norton sound. terrible weather, snowstorms and high winds, but he pulled through where a thousand other men would have died, missing st. michaels and making the land at pastilik. he'd lost all but two dogs, and was nearly gone with starvation. 'he was so anxious to go on that father roubeau fitted him out with grub; but he couldn't let him have any dogs, for he was only waiting my arrival, to go on a trip himself. mr. ulysses knew too much to start on without animals, and fretted around for several days. he had on his sled a bunch of beautifully cured otter skins, sea otters, you know, worth their weight in gold. there was also at pastilik an old shylock of a russian trader, who had dogs to kill. well, they didn't dicker very long, but when the strange one headed south again, it was in the rear of a spanking dog team. mr. shylock, by the way, had the otter skins. i saw them, and they were magnificent. we figured it up and found the dogs brought him at least five hundred apiece. and it wasn't as if the strange one didn't know the value of sea otter; he was an indian of some sort, and what little he talked showed he'd been among white men. 'after the ice passed out of the sea, word came up from nunivak island that he'd gone in there for grub. then he dropped from sight, and this is the first heard of him in eight years. now where did he come from? and what was he doing there? and why did he come from there? he's indian, he's been nobody knows where, and he's had discipline, which is unusual for an indian. another mystery of the north for you to solve, prince.' 'thanks awfully, but i've got too many on hand as it is,' he replied. malemute kid was already breathing heavily; but the young mining engineer gazed straight up through the thick darkness, waiting for the strange orgasm which stirred his blood to die away. and when he did sleep, his brain worked on, and for the nonce he, too, wandered through the white unknown, struggled with the dogs on endless trails, and saw men live, and toil, and die like men. the next morning, hours before daylight, the dog drivers and policemen pulled out for dawson. but the powers that saw to her majesty's interests and ruled the destinies of her lesser creatures gave the mailmen little rest, for a week later they appeared at stuart river, heavily burdened with letters for salt water. however, their dogs had been replaced by fresh ones; but, then, they were dogs. the men had expected some sort of a layover in which to rest up; besides, this klondike was a new section of the northland, and they had wished to see a little something of the golden city where dust flowed like water and dance halls rang with never-ending revelry. but they dried their socks and smoked their evening pipes with much the same gusto as on their former visit, though one or two bold spirits speculated on desertion and the possibility of crossing the unexplored rockies to the east, and thence, by the mackenzie valley, of gaining their old stamping grounds in the chippewyan country. two or three even decided to return to their homes by that route when their terms of service had expired, and they began to lay plans forthwith, looking forward to the hazardous undertaking in much the same way a city-bred man would to a day's holiday in the woods. he of the otter skins seemed very restless, though he took little interest in the discussion, and at last he drew malemute kid to one side and talked for some time in low tones. prince cast curious eyes in their direction, and the mystery deepened when they put on caps and mittens and went outside. when they returned, malemute kid placed his gold scales on the table, weighed out the matter of sixty ounces, and transferred them to the strange one's sack. then the chief of the dog drivers joined the conclave, and certain business was transacted with him. the next day the gang went on upriver, but he of the otter skins took several pounds of grub and turned his steps back toward dawson. 'didn't know what to make of it,' said malemute kid in response to prince's queries; 'but the poor beggar wanted to be quit of the service for some reason or other--at least it seemed a most important one to him, though he wouldn't let on what. you see, it's just like the army: he signed for two years, and the only way to get free was to buy himself out. he couldn't desert and then stay here, and he was just wild to remain in the country. 'made up his mind when he got to dawson, he said; but no one knew him, hadn't a cent, and i was the only one he'd spoken two words with. so he talked it over with the lieutenant-governor, and made arrangements in case he could get the money from me--loan, you know. said he'd pay back in the year, and, if i wanted, would put me onto something rich. never'd seen it, but he knew it was rich. 'and talk! why, when he got me outside he was ready to weep. begged and pleaded; got down in the snow to me till i hauled him out of it. palavered around like a crazy man. 'swore he's worked to this very end for years and years, and couldn't bear to be disappointed now. asked him what end, but he wouldn't say. 'said they might keep him on the other half of the trail and he wouldn't get to dawson in two years, and then it would be too late. never saw a man take on so in my life. and when i said i'd let him have it, had to yank him out of the snow again. told him to consider it in the light of a grubstake. think he'd have it? no sir! swore he'd give me all he found, make me rich beyond the dreams of avarice, and all such stuff. now a man who puts his life and time against a grubstake ordinarily finds it hard enough to turn over half of what he finds. something behind all this, prince; just you make a note of it. we'll hear of him if he stays in the country--' 'and if he doesn't?' 'then my good nature gets a shock, and i'm sixty some odd ounces out.' the cold weather had come on with the long nights, and the sun had begun to play his ancient game of peekaboo along the southern snow line ere aught was heard of malemute kid's grubstake. and then, one bleak morning in early january, a heavily laden dog train pulled into his cabin below stuart river. he of the otter skins was there, and with him walked a man such as the gods have almost forgotten how to fashion. men never talked of luck and pluck and five-hundred-dollar dirt without bringing in the name of axel gunderson; nor could tales of nerve or strength or daring pass up and down the campfire without the summoning of his presence. and when the conversation flagged, it blazed anew at mention of the woman who shared his fortunes. as has been noted, in the making of axel gunderson the gods had remembered their old-time cunning and cast him after the manner of men who were born when the world was young. full seven feet he towered in his picturesque costume which marked a king of eldorado. his chest, neck, and limbs were those of a giant. to bear his three hundred pounds of bone and muscle, his snowshoes were greater by a generous yard than those of other men. rough-hewn, with rugged brow and massive jaw and unflinching eyes of palest blue, his face told the tale of one who knew but the law of might. of the yellow of ripe corn silk, his frost-incrusted hair swept like day across the night and fell far down his coat of bearskin. a vague tradition of the sea seemed to cling about him as he swung down the narrow trail in advance of the dogs; and he brought the butt of his dog whip against malemute kid's door as a norse sea rover, on southern foray, might thunder for admittance at the castle gate. prince bared his womanly arms and kneaded sour-dough bread, casting, as he did so, many a glance at the three guests--three guests the like of which might never come under a man's roof in a lifetime. the strange one, whom malemute kid had surnamed ulysses, still fascinated him; but his interest chiefly gravitated between axel gunderson and axel gunderson's wife. she felt the day's journey, for she had softened in comfortable cabins during the many days since her husband mastered the wealth of frozen pay streaks, and she was tired. she rested against his great breast like a slender flower against a wall, replying lazily to malemute kid's good-natured banter, and stirring prince's blood strangely with an occasional sweep of her deep, dark eyes. for prince was a man, and healthy, and had seen few women in many months. and she was older than he, and an indian besides. but she was different from all native wives he had met: she had traveled--had been in his country among others, he gathered from the conversation; and she knew most of the things the women of his own race knew, and much more that it was not in the nature of things for them to know. she could make a meal of sun-dried fish or a bed in the snow; yet she teased them with tantalizing details of many-course dinners, and caused strange internal dissensions to arise at the mention of various quondam dishes which they had well-nigh forgotten. she knew the ways of the moose, the bear, and the little blue fox, and of the wild amphibians of the northern seas; she was skilled in the lore of the woods, and the streams, and the tale writ by man and bird and beast upon the delicate snow crust was to her an open book; yet prince caught the appreciative twinkle in her eye as she read the rules of the camp. these rules had been fathered by the unquenchable bettles at a time when his blood ran high, and were remarkable for the terse simplicity of their humor. prince always turned them to the wall before the arrival of ladies; but who could suspect that this native wife--well, it was too late now. this, then, was the wife of axel gunderson, a woman whose name and fame had traveled with her husband's, hand in hand, through all the northland. at table, malemute kid baited her with the assurance of an old friend, and prince shook off the shyness of first acquaintance and joined in. but she held her own in the unequal contest, while her husband, slower in wit, ventured naught but applause. and he was very proud of her; his every look and action revealed the magnitude of the place she occupied in his life. he of the otter skins ate in silence, forgotten in the merry battle; and long ere the others were done he pushed back from the table and went out among the dogs. yet all too soon his fellow travelers drew on their mittens and parkas and followed him. there had been no snow for many days, and the sleds slipped along the hardpacked yukon trail as easily as if it had been glare ice. ulysses led the first sled; with the second came prince and axel gunderson's wife; while malemute kid and the yellow-haired giant brought up the third. 'it's only a hunch, kid,' he said, 'but i think it's straight. he's never been there, but he tells a good story, and shows a map i heard of when i was in the kootenay country years ago. i'd like to have you go along; but he's a strange one, and swore point-blank to throw it up if anyone was brought in. but when i come back you'll get first tip, and i'll stake you next to me, and give you a half share in the town site besides.' 'no! no!' he cried, as the other strove to interrupt. 'i'm running this, and before i'm done it'll need two heads. 'if it's all right, why, it'll be a second cripple creek, man; do you hear?--a second cripple creek! it's quartz, you know, not placer; and if we work it right we'll corral the whole thing--millions upon millions. i've heard of the place before, and so have you. we'll build a town--thousands of workmen--good waterways--steamship lines--big carrying trade--light-draught steamers for head reaches--survey a railroad, perhaps--sawmills--electric-light plant--do our own banking--commercial company--syndicate--say! just you hold your hush till i get back!' the sleds came to a halt where the trail crossed the mouth of stuart river. an unbroken sea of frost, its wide expanse stretched away into the unknown east. the snowshoes were withdrawn from the lashings of the sleds. axel gunderson shook hands and stepped to the fore, his great webbed shoes sinking a fair half yard into the feathery surface and packing the snow so the dogs should not wallow. his wife fell in behind the last sled, betraying long practice in the art of handling the awkward footgear. the stillness was broken with cheery farewells; the dogs whined; and he of the otter skins talked with his whip to a recalcitrant wheeler. an hour later the train had taken on the likeness of a black pencil crawling in a long, straight line across a mighty sheet of foolscap. ii one night, many weeks later, malemute kid and prince fell to solving chess problems from the torn page of an ancient magazine. the kid had just returned from his bonanza properties and was resting up preparatory to a long moose hunt. prince, too, had been on creek and trail nearly all winter, and had grown hungry for a blissful week of cabin life. 'interpose the black knight, and force the king. no, that won't do. see, the next move-' 'why advance the pawn two squares? bound to take it in transit, and with the bishop out of the way-' 'but hold on! that leaves a hole, and-' 'no; it's protected. go ahead! you'll see it works.' it was very interesting. somebody knocked at the door a second time before malemute kid said, 'come in.' the door swung open. something staggered in. prince caught one square look and sprang to his feet. the horror in his eyes caused malemute kid to whirl about; and he, too, was startled, though he had seen bad things before. the thing tottered blindly toward them. prince edged away till he reached the nail from which hung his smith & wesson. 'my god! what is it?' he whispered to malemute kid. 'don't know. looks like a case of freezing and no grub,' replied the kid, sliding away in the opposite direction. 'watch out! it may be mad,' he warned, coming back from closing the door. the thing advanced to the table. the bright flame of the slush lamp caught its eye. it was amused, and gave voice to eldritch cackles which betokened mirth. then, suddenly, he--for it was a man--swayed back, with a hitch to his skin trousers, and began to sing a chantey, such as men lift when they swing around the capstan circle and the sea snorts in their ears: yan-kee ship come down de ri-ib-er, pull! my bully boys! pull! d'yeh want--to know de captain ru-uns her? pull! my bully boys! pull! jon-a-than jones ob south caho-li-in-a, pull! my bully. he broke off abruptly, tottered with a wolfish snarl to the meat shelf, and before they could intercept was tearing with his teeth at a chunk of raw bacon. the struggle was fierce between him and malemute kid; but his mad strength left him as suddenly as it had come, and he weakly surrendered the spoil. between them they got him upon a stool, where he sprawled with half his body across the table. a small dose of whiskey strengthened him, so that he could dip a spoon into the sugar caddy which malemute kid placed before him. after his appetite had been somewhat cloyed, prince, shuddering as he did so, passed him a mug of weak beef tea. the creature's eyes were alight with a somber frenzy, which blazed and waned with every mouthful. there was very little skin to the face. the face, for that matter, sunken and emaciated, bore little likeness to human countenance. frost after frost had bitten deeply, each depositing its stratum of scab upon the half-healed scar that went before. this dry, hard surface was of a bloody-black color, serrated by grievous cracks wherein the raw red flesh peeped forth. his skin garments were dirty and in tatters, and the fur of one side was singed and burned away, showing where he had lain upon his fire. malemute kid pointed to where the sun-tanned hide had been cut away, strip by strip--the grim signature of famine. 'who--are--you?' slowly and distinctly enunciated the kid. the man paid no heed. 'where do you come from?' 'yan-kee ship come down de ri-ib-er,' was the quavering response. 'don't doubt the beggar came down the river,' the kid said, shaking him in an endeavor to start a more lucid flow of talk. but the man shrieked at the contact, clapping a hand to his side in evident pain. he rose slowly to his feet, half leaning on the table. 'she laughed at me--so--with the hate in her eye; and she--would--not--come.' his voice died away, and he was sinking back when malemute kid gripped him by the wrist and shouted, 'who? who would not come?' 'she, unga. she laughed, and struck at me, so, and so. and then-' 'yes?' 'and then--' 'and then what?' 'and then he lay very still in the snow a long time. he is-still in--the--snow.' the two men looked at each other helplessly. 'who is in the snow?' 'she, unga. she looked at me with the hate in her eye, and then--' 'yes, yes.' 'and then she took the knife, so; and once, twice--she was weak. i traveled very slow. and there is much gold in that place, very much gold.' 'where is unga?' for all malemute kid knew, she might be dying a mile away. he shook the man savagely, repeating again and again, 'where is unga? who is unga?' 'she--is--in--the--snow.' 'go on!' the kid was pressing his wrist cruelly. 'so--i--would--be--in--the snow--but--i--had--a--debt--to--pay. it--was--heavy--i--had--a-debt--to--pay--a--debt--to--pay i--had-' the faltering monosyllables ceased as he fumbled in his pouch and drew forth a buckskin sack. 'a--debt--to--pay--five--pounds--of--gold-grub-- stake--mal--e--mute--kid--i--y--' the exhausted head dropped upon the table; nor could malemute kid rouse it again. 'it's ulysses,' he said quietly, tossing the bag of dust on the table. 'guess it's all day with axel gunderson and the woman. come on, let's get him between the blankets. he's indian; he'll pull through and tell a tale besides.' as they cut his garments from him, near his right breast could be seen two unhealed, hard-lipped knife thrusts. iii 'i will talk of the things which were in my own way; but you will understand. i will begin at the beginning, and tell of myself and the woman, and, after that, of the man.' he of the otter skins drew over to the stove as do men who have been deprived of fire and are afraid the promethean gift may vanish at any moment. malemute kid picked up the slush lamp and placed it so its light might fall upon the face of the narrator. prince slid his body over the edge of the bunk and joined them. 'i am naass, a chief, and the son of a chief, born between a sunset and a rising, on the dark seas, in my father's oomiak. all of a night the men toiled at the paddles, and the women cast out the waves which threw in upon us, and we fought with the storm. the salt spray froze upon my mother's breast till her breath passed with the passing of the tide. but i--i raised my voice with the wind and the storm, and lived. 'we dwelt in akatan--' 'where?' asked malemute kid. 'akatan, which is in the aleutians; akatan, beyond chignik, beyond kardalak, beyond unimak. as i say, we dwelt in akatan, which lies in the midst of the sea on the edge of the world. we farmed the salt seas for the fish, the seal, and the otter; and our homes shouldered about one another on the rocky strip between the rim of the forest and the yellow beach where our kayaks lay. we were not many, and the world was very small. there were strange lands to the east--islands like akatan; so we thought all the world was islands and did not mind. 'i was different from my people. in the sands of the beach were the crooked timbers and wave-warped planks of a boat such as my people never built; and i remember on the point of the island which overlooked the ocean three ways there stood a pine tree which never grew there, smooth and straight and tall. it is said the two men came to that spot, turn about, through many days, and watched with the passing of the light. these two men came from out of the sea in the boat which lay in pieces on the beach. and they were white like you, and weak as the little children when the seal have gone away and the hunters come home empty. i know of these things from the old men and the old women, who got them from their fathers and mothers before them. these strange white men did not take kindly to our ways at first, but they grew strong, what of the fish and the oil, and fierce. and they built them each his own house, and took the pick of our women, and in time children came. thus he was born who was to become the father of my father's father. 'as i said, i was different from my people, for i carried the strong, strange blood of this white man who came out of the sea. it is said we had other laws in the days before these men; but they were fierce and quarrelsome, and fought with our men till there were no more left who dared to fight. then they made themselves chiefs, and took away our old laws, and gave us new ones, insomuch that the man was the son of his father, and not his mother, as our way had been. they also ruled that the son, first-born, should have all things which were his father's before him, and that the brothers and sisters should shift for themselves. and they gave us other laws. they showed us new ways in the catching of fish and the killing of bear which were thick in the woods; and they taught us to lay by bigger stores for the time of famine. and these things were good. 'but when they had become chiefs, and there were no more men to face their anger, they fought, these strange white men, each with the other. and the one whose blood i carry drove his seal spear the length of an arm through the other's body. their children took up the fight, and their children's children; and there was great hatred between them, and black doings, even to my time, so that in each family but one lived to pass down the blood of them that went before. of my blood i was alone; of the other man's there was but a girl. unga, who lived with her mother. her father and my father did not come back from the fishing one night; but afterward they washed up to the beach on the big tides, and they held very close to each other. 'the people wondered, because of the hatred between the houses, and the old men shook their heads and said the fight would go on when children were born to her and children to me. they told me this as a boy, till i came to believe, and to look upon unga as a foe, who was to be the mother of children which were to fight with mine. i thought of these things day by day, and when i grew to a stripling i came to ask why this should be so. 'and they answered, "we do not know, but that in such way your fathers did." and i marveled that those which were to come should fight the battles of those that were gone, and in it i could see no right. but the people said it must be, and i was only a stripling. 'and they said i must hurry, that my blood might be the older and grow strong before hers. this was easy, for i was head man, and the people looked up to me because of the deeds and the laws of my fathers, and the wealth which was mine. any maiden would come to me, but i found none to my liking. and the old men and the mothers of maidens told me to hurry, for even then were the hunters bidding high to the mother of unga; and should her children grow strong before mine, mine would surely die. 'nor did i find a maiden till one night coming back from the fishing. the sunlight was lying, so, low and full in the eyes, the wind free, and the kayacks racing with the white seas. of a sudden the kayak of unga came driving past me, and she looked upon me, so, with her black hair flying like a cloud of night and the spray wet on her cheek. as i say, the sunlight was full in the eyes, and i was a stripling; but somehow it was all clear, and i knew it to be the call of kind to kind. 'as she whipped ahead she looked back within the space of two strokes--looked as only the woman unga could look--and again i knew it as the call of kind. the people shouted as we ripped past the lazy oomiaks and left them far behind. but she was quick at the paddle, and my heart was like the belly of a sail, and i did not gain. the wind freshened, the sea whitened, and, leaping like the seals on the windward breech, we roared down the golden pathway of the sun.' naass was crouched half out of his stool, in the attitude of one driving a paddle, as he ran the race anew. somewhere across the stove he beheld the tossing kayak and the flying hair of unga. the voice of the wind was in his ears, and its salt beat fresh upon his nostrils. 'but she made the shore, and ran up the sand, laughing, to the house of her mother. and a great thought came to me that night--a thought worthy of him that was chief over all the people of akatan. so, when the moon was up, i went down to the house of her mother, and looked upon the goods of yash-noosh, which were piled by the door--the goods of yash-noosh, a strong hunter who had it in mind to be the father of the children of unga. other young men had piled their goods there and taken them away again; and each young man had made a pile greater than the one before. 'and i laughed to the moon and the stars, and went to my own house where my wealth was stored. and many trips i made, till my pile was greater by the fingers of one hand than the pile of yash-noosh. there were fish, dried in the sun and smoked; and forty hides of the hair seal, and half as many of the fur, and each hide was tied at the mouth and big bellied with oil; and ten skins of bear which i killed in the woods when they came out in the spring. and there were beads and blankets and scarlet cloths, such as i got in trade from the people who lived to the east, and who got them in trade from the people who lived still beyond in the east. 'and i looked upon the pile of yash-noosh and laughed, for i was head man in akatan, and my wealth was greater than the wealth of all my young men, and my fathers had done deeds, and given laws, and put their names for all time in the mouths of the people. 'so, when the morning came, i went down to the beach, casting out of the corner of my eye at the house of the mother of unga. my offer yet stood untouched. 'and the women smiled, and said sly things one to the other. i wondered, for never had such a price been offered; and that night i added more to the pile, and put beside it a kayak of well-tanned skins which never yet had swam in the sea. but in the day it was yet there, open to the laughter of all men. the mother of unga was crafty, and i grew angry at the shame in which i stood before my people. so that night i added till it became a great pile, and i hauled up my oomiak, which was of the value of twenty kayaks. and in the morning there was no pile. 'then made i preparation for the wedding, and the people that lived even to the east came for the food of the feast and the potlatch token. unga was older than i by the age of four suns in the way we reckoned the years. i was only a stripling; but then i was a chief, and the son of a chief, and it did not matter. 'but a ship shoved her sails above the floor of the ocean, and grew larger with the breath of the wind. from her scuppers she ran clear water, and the men were in haste and worked hard at the pumps. on the bow stood a mighty man, watching the depth of the water and giving commands with a voice of thunder. his eyes were of the pale blue of the deep waters, and his head was maned like that of a sea lion. and his hair was yellow, like the straw of a southern harvest or the manila rope yarns which sailormen plait. 'of late years we had seen ships from afar, but this was the first to come to the beach of akatan. the feast was broken, and the women and children fled to the houses, while we men strung our bows and waited with spears in hand. but when the ship's forefoot smelled the beach the strange men took no notice of us, being busy with their own work. with the falling of the tide they careened the schooner and patched a great hole in her bottom. so the women crept back, and the feast went on. 'when the tide rose, the sea wanderers kedged the schooner to deep water and then came among us. they bore presents and were friendly; so i made room for them, and out of the largeness of my heart gave them tokens such as i gave all the guests, for it was my wedding day, and i was head man in akatan. and he with the mane of the sea lion was there, so tall and strong that one looked to see the earth shake with the fall of his feet. he looked much and straight at unga, with his arms folded, so, and stayed till the sun went away and the stars came out. then he went down to his ship. after that i took unga by the hand and led her to my own house. and there was singing and great laughter, and the women said sly things, after the manner of women at such times. but we did not care. then the people left us alone and went home. 'the last noise had not died away when the chief of the sea wanderers came in by the door. and he had with him black bottles, from which we drank and made merry. you see, i was only a stripling, and had lived all my days on the edge of the world. so my blood became as fire, and my heart as light as the froth that flies from the surf to the cliff. unga sat silent among the skins in the corner, her eyes wide, for she seemed to fear. and he with the mane of the sea lion looked upon her straight and long. then his men came in with bundles of goods, and he piled before me wealth such as was not in all akatan. there were guns, both large and small, and powder and shot and shell, and bright axes and knives of steel, and cunning tools, and strange things the like of which i had never seen. when he showed me by sign that it was all mine, i thought him a great man to be so free; but he showed me also that unga was to go away with him in his ship. 'do you understand?--that unga was to go away with him in his ship. the blood of my fathers flamed hot on the sudden, and i made to drive him through with my spear. but the spirit of the bottles had stolen the life from my arm, and he took me by the neck, so, and knocked my head against the wall of the house. and i was made weak like a newborn child, and my legs would no more stand under me. 'unga screamed, and she laid hold of the things of the house with her hands, till they fell all about us as he dragged her to the door. then he took her in his great arms, and when she tore at his yellow hair laughed with a sound like that of the big bull seal in the rut. 'i crawled to the beach and called upon my people, but they were afraid. only yash-noosh was a man, and they struck him on the head with an oar, till he lay with his face in the sand and did not move. and they raised the sails to the sound of their songs, and the ship went away on the wind. 'the people said it was good, for there would be no more war of the bloods in akatan; but i said never a word, waiting till the time of the full moon, when i put fish and oil in my kayak and went away to the east. i saw many islands and many people, and i, who had lived on the edge, saw that the world was very large. i talked by signs; but they had not seen a schooner nor a man with the mane of a sea lion, and they pointed always to the east. and i slept in queer places, and ate odd things, and met strange faces. many laughed, for they thought me light of head; but sometimes old men turned my face to the light and blessed me, and the eyes of the young women grew soft as they asked me of the strange ship, and unga, and the men of the sea. 'and in this manner, through rough seas and great storms, i came to unalaska. there were two schooners there, but neither was the one i sought. so i passed on to the east, with the world growing ever larger, and in the island of unamok there was no word of the ship, nor in kadiak, nor in atognak. and so i came one day to a rocky land, where men dug great holes in the mountain. and there was a schooner, but not my schooner, and men loaded upon it the rocks which they dug. this i thought childish, for all the world was made of rocks; but they gave me food and set me to work. when the schooner was deep in the water, the captain gave me money and told me to go; but i asked which way he went, and he pointed south. i made signs that i would go with him, and he laughed at first, but then, being short of men, took me to help work the ship. so i came to talk after their manner, and to heave on ropes, and to reef the stiff sails in sudden squalls, and to take my turn at the wheel. but it was not strange, for the blood of my fathers was the blood of the men of the sea. 'i had thought it an easy task to find him i sought, once i got among his own people; and when we raised the land one day, and passed between a gateway of the sea to a port, i looked for perhaps as many schooners as there were fingers to my hands. but the ships lay against the wharves for miles, packed like so many little fish; and when i went among them to ask for a man with the mane of a sea lion, they laughed, and answered me in the tongues of many peoples. and i found that they hailed from the uttermost parts of the earth. 'and i went into the city to look upon the face of every man. but they were like the cod when they run thick on the banks, and i could not count them. and the noise smote upon me till i could not hear, and my head was dizzy with much movement. so i went on and on, through the lands which sang in the warm sunshine; where the harvests lay rich on the plains; and where great cities were fat with men that lived like women, with false words in their mouths and their hearts black with the lust of gold. and all the while my people of akatan hunted and fished, and were happy in the thought that the world was small. 'but the look in the eyes of unga coming home from the fishing was with me always, and i knew i would find her when the time was met. she walked down quiet lanes in the dusk of the evening, or led me chases across the thick fields wet with the morning dew, and there was a promise in her eyes such as only the woman unga could give. 'so i wandered through a thousand cities. some were gentle and gave me food, and others laughed, and still others cursed; but i kept my tongue between my teeth, and went strange ways and saw strange sights. sometimes i, who was a chief and the son of a chief, toiled for men--men rough of speech and hard as iron, who wrung gold from the sweat and sorrow of their fellow men. yet no word did i get of my quest till i came back to the sea like a homing seal to the rookeries. 'but this was at another port, in another country which lay to the north. and there i heard dim tales of the yellow-haired sea wanderer, and i learned that he was a hunter of seals, and that even then he was abroad on the ocean. 'so i shipped on a seal schooner with the lazy siwashes, and followed his trackless trail to the north where the hunt was then warm. and we were away weary months, and spoke many of the fleet, and heard much of the wild doings of him i sought; but never once did we raise him above the sea. we went north, even to the pribilofs, and killed the seals in herds on the beach, and brought their warm bodies aboard till our scuppers ran grease and blood and no man could stand upon the deck. then were we chased by a ship of slow steam, which fired upon us with great guns. but we put sail till the sea was over our decks and washed them clean, and lost ourselves in a fog. 'it is said, at this time, while we fled with fear at our hearts, that the yellow-haired sea wanderer put in to the pribilofs, right to the factory, and while the part of his men held the servants of the company, the rest loaded ten thousand green skins from the salt houses. i say it is said, but i believe; for in the voyages i made on the coast with never a meeting the northern seas rang with his wildness and daring, till the three nations which have lands there sought him with their ships. 'and i heard of unga, for the captains sang loud in her praise, and she was always with him. she had learned the ways of his people, they said, and was happy. but i knew better--knew that her heart harked back to her own people by the yellow beach of akatan. 'so, after a long time, i went back to the port which is by a gateway of the sea, and there i learned that he had gone across the girth of the great ocean to hunt for the seal to the east of the warm land which runs south from the russian seas. 'and i, who was become a sailorman, shipped with men of his own race, and went after him in the hunt of the seal. and there were few ships off that new land; but we hung on the flank of the seal pack and harried it north through all the spring of the year. and when the cows were heavy with pup and crossed the russian line, our men grumbled and were afraid. for there was much fog, and every day men were lost in the boats. they would not work, so the captain turned the ship back toward the way it came. but i knew the yellow-haired sea wanderer was unafraid, and would hang by the pack, even to the russian isles, where few men go. so i took a boat, in the black of night, when the lookout dozed on the fo'c'slehead, and went alone to the warm, long land. and i journeyed south to meet the men by yeddo bay, who are wild and unafraid. and the yoshiwara girls were small, and bright like steel, and good to look upon; but i could not stop, for i knew that unga rolled on the tossing floor by the rookeries of the north. 'the men by yeddo bay had met from the ends of the earth, and had neither gods nor homes, sailing under the flag of the japanese. and with them i went to the rich beaches of copper island, where our salt piles became high with skins. 'and in that silent sea we saw no man till we were ready to come away. then one day the fog lifted on the edge of a heavy wind, and there jammed down upon us a schooner, with close in her wake the cloudy funnels of a russian man-of-war. we fled away on the beam of the wind, with the schooner jamming still closer and plunging ahead three feet to our two. and upon her poop was the man with the mane of the sea lion, pressing the rails under with the canvas and laughing in his strength of life. and unga was there--i knew her on the moment--but he sent her below when the cannons began to talk across the sea. as i say, with three feet to our two, till we saw the rudder lift green at every jump--and i swinging on to the wheel and cursing, with my back to the russian shot. for we knew he had it in mind to run before us, that he might get away while we were caught. and they knocked our masts out of us till we dragged into the wind like a wounded gull; but he went on over the edge of the sky line--he and unga. 'what could we? the fresh hides spoke for themselves. so they took us to a russian port, and after that to a lone country, where they set us to work in the mines to dig salt. and some died, and--and some did not die.' naass swept the blanket from his shoulders, disclosing the gnarled and twisted flesh, marked with the unmistakable striations of the knout. prince hastily covered him, for it was not nice to look upon. 'we were there a weary time and sometimes men got away to the south, but they always came back. so, when we who hailed from yeddo bay rose in the night and took the guns from the guards, we went to the north. and the land was very large, with plains, soggy with water, and great forests. and the cold came, with much snow on the ground, and no man knew the way. weary months we journeyed through the endless forest--i do not remember, now, for there was little food and often we lay down to die. but at last we came to the cold sea, and but three were left to look upon it. one had shipped from yeddo as captain, and he knew in his head the lay of the great lands, and of the place where men may cross from one to the other on the ice. and he led us--i do not know, it was so long--till there were but two. when we came to that place we found five of the strange people which live in that country, and they had dogs and skins, and we were very poor. we fought in the snow till they died, and the captain died, and the dogs and skins were mine. then i crossed on the ice, which was broken, and once i drifted till a gale from the west put me upon the shore. and after that, golovin bay, pastilik, and the priest. then south, south, to the warm sunlands where first i wandered. 'but the sea was no longer fruitful, and those who went upon it after the seal went to little profit and great risk. the fleets scattered, and the captains and the men had no word of those i sought. so i turned away from the ocean which never rests, and went among the lands, where the trees, the houses, and the mountains sit always in one place and do not move. i journeyed far, and came to learn many things, even to the way of reading and writing from books. it was well i should do this, for it came upon me that unga must know these things, and that someday, when the time was met--we--you understand, when the time was met. 'so i drifted, like those little fish which raise a sail to the wind but cannot steer. but my eyes and my ears were open always, and i went among men who traveled much, for i knew they had but to see those i sought to remember. at last there came a man, fresh from the mountains, with pieces of rock in which the free gold stood to the size of peas, and he had heard, he had met, he knew them. they were rich, he said, and lived in the place where they drew the gold from the ground. 'it was in a wild country, and very far away; but in time i came to the camp, hidden between the mountains, where men worked night and day, out of the sight of the sun. yet the time was not come. i listened to the talk of the people. he had gone away--they had gone away--to england, it was said, in the matter of bringing men with much money together to form companies. i saw the house they had lived in; more like a palace, such as one sees in the old countries. in the nighttime i crept in through a window that i might see in what manner he treated her. i went from room to room, and in such way thought kings and queens must live, it was all so very good. and they all said he treated her like a queen, and many marveled as to what breed of woman she was for there was other blood in her veins, and she was different from the women of akatan, and no one knew her for what she was. aye, she was a queen; but i was a chief, and the son of a chief, and i had paid for her an untold price of skin and boat and bead. 'but why so many words? i was a sailorman, and knew the way of the ships on the seas. i followed to england, and then to other countries. sometimes i heard of them by word of mouth, sometimes i read of them in the papers; yet never once could i come by them, for they had much money, and traveled fast, while i was a poor man. then came trouble upon them, and their wealth slipped away one day like a curl of smoke. the papers were full of it at the time; but after that nothing was said, and i knew they had gone back where more gold could be got from the ground. 'they had dropped out of the world, being now poor, and so i wandered from camp to camp, even north to the kootenay country, where i picked up the cold scent. they had come and gone, some said this way, and some that, and still others that they had gone to the country of the yukon. and i went this way, and i went that, ever journeying from place to place, till it seemed i must grow weary of the world which was so large. but in the kootenay i traveled a bad trail, and a long trail, with a breed of the northwest, who saw fit to die when the famine pinched. he had been to the yukon by an unknown way over the mountains, and when he knew his time was near gave me the map and the secret of a place where he swore by his gods there was much gold. 'after that all the world began to flock into the north. i was a poor man; i sold myself to be a driver of dogs. the rest you know. i met him and her in dawson. 'she did not know me, for i was only a stripling, and her life had been large, so she had no time to remember the one who had paid for her an untold price. 'so? you bought me from my term of service. i went back to bring things about in my own way, for i had waited long, and now that i had my hand upon him was in no hurry. 'as i say, i had it in mind to do my own way, for i read back in my life, through all i had seen and suffered, and remembered the cold and hunger of the endless forest by the russian seas. as you know, i led him into the east--him and unga--into the east where many have gone and few returned. i led them to the spot where the bones and the curses of men lie with the gold which they may not have. 'the way was long and the trail unpacked. our dogs were many and ate much; nor could our sleds carry till the break of spring. we must come back before the river ran free. so here and there we cached grub, that our sleds might be lightened and there be no chance of famine on the back trip. at the mcquestion there were three men, and near them we built a cache, as also did we at the mayo, where was a hunting camp of a dozen pellys which had crossed the divide from the south. 'after that, as we went on into the east, we saw no men; only the sleeping river, the moveless forest, and the white silence of the north. as i say, the way was long and the trail unpacked. sometimes, in a day's toil, we made no more than eight miles, or ten, and at night we slept like dead men. and never once did they dream that i was naass, head man of akatan, the righter of wrongs. 'we now made smaller caches, and in the nighttime it was a small matter to go back on the trail we had broken and change them in such way that one might deem the wolverines the thieves. again there be places where there is a fall to the river, and the water is unruly, and the ice makes above and is eaten away beneath. 'in such a spot the sled i drove broke through, and the dogs; and to him and unga it was ill luck, but no more. and there was much grub on that sled, and the dogs the strongest. 'but he laughed, for he was strong of life, and gave the dogs that were left little grub till we cut them from the harnesses one by one and fed them to their mates. we would go home light, he said, traveling and eating from cache to cache, with neither dogs nor sleds; which was true, for our grub was very short, and the last dog died in the traces the night we came to the gold and the bones and the curses of men. 'to reach that place--and the map spoke true--in the heart of the great mountains, we cut ice steps against the wall of a divide. one looked for a valley beyond, but there was no valley; the snow spread away, level as the great harvest plains, and here and there about us mighty mountains shoved their white heads among the stars. and midway on that strange plain which should have been a valley the earth and the snow fell away, straight down toward the heart of the world. 'had we not been sailormen our heads would have swung round with the sight, but we stood on the dizzy edge that we might see a way to get down. and on one side, and one side only, the wall had fallen away till it was like the slope of the decks in a topsail breeze. i do not know why this thing should be so, but it was so. "it is the mouth of hell," he said; "let us go down." and we went down. 'and on the bottom there was a cabin, built by some man, of logs which he had cast down from above. it was a very old cabin, for men had died there alone at different times, and on pieces of birch bark which were there we read their last words and their curses. 'one had died of scurvy; another's partner had robbed him of his last grub and powder and stolen away; a third had been mauled by a baldface grizzly; a fourth had hunted for game and starved--and so it went, and they had been loath to leave the gold, and had died by the side of it in one way or another. and the worthless gold they had gathered yellowed the floor of the cabin like in a dream. 'but his soul was steady, and his head clear, this man i had led thus far. "we have nothing to eat," he said, "and we will only look upon this gold, and see whence it comes and how much there be. then we will go away quick, before it gets into our eyes and steals away our judgment. and in this way we may return in the end, with more grub, and possess it all." so we looked upon the great vein, which cut the wall of the pit as a true vein should, and we measured it, and traced it from above and below, and drove the stakes of the claims and blazed the trees in token of our rights. then, our knees shaking with lack of food, and a sickness in our bellies, and our hearts chugging close to our mouths, we climbed the mighty wall for the last time and turned our faces to the back trip. 'the last stretch we dragged unga between us, and we fell often, but in the end we made the cache. and lo, there was no grub. it was well done, for he thought it the wolverines, and damned them and his gods in one breath. but unga was brave, and smiled, and put her hand in his, till i turned away that i might hold myself. "we will rest by the fire," she said, "till morning, and we will gather strength from our moccasins." so we cut the tops of our moccasins in strips, and boiled them half of the night, that we might chew them and swallow them. and in the morning we talked of our chance. the next cache was five days' journey; we could not make it. we must find game. '"we will go forth and hunt," he said. '"yes," said i, "we will go forth and hunt." 'and he ruled that unga stay by the fire and save her strength. and we went forth, he in quest of the moose and i to the cache i had changed. but i ate little, so they might not see in me much strength. and in the night he fell many times as he drew into camp. and i, too, made to suffer great weakness, stumbling over my snowshoes as though each step might be my last. and we gathered strength from our moccasins. 'he was a great man. his soul lifted his body to the last; nor did he cry aloud, save for the sake of unga. on the second day i followed him, that i might not miss the end. and he lay down to rest often. that night he was near gone; but in the morning he swore weakly and went forth again. he was like a drunken man, and i looked many times for him to give up, but his was the strength of the strong, and his soul the soul of a giant, for he lifted his body through all the weary day. and he shot two ptarmigan, but would not eat them. he needed no fire; they meant life; but his thought was for unga, and he turned toward camp. 'he no longer walked, but crawled on hand and knee through the snow. i came to him, and read death in his eyes. even then it was not too late to eat of the ptarmigan. he cast away his rifle and carried the birds in his mouth like a dog. i walked by his side, upright. and he looked at me during the moments he rested, and wondered that i was so strong. i could see it, though he no longer spoke; and when his lips moved, they moved without sound. 'as i say, he was a great man, and my heart spoke for softness; but i read back in my life, and remembered the cold and hunger of the endless forest by the russian seas. besides, unga was mine, and i had paid for her an untold price of skin and boat and bead. 'and in this manner we came through the white forest, with the silence heavy upon us like a damp sea mist. and the ghosts of the past were in the air and all about us; and i saw the yellow beach of akatan, and the kayaks racing home from the fishing, and the houses on the rim of the forest. and the men who had made themselves chiefs were there, the lawgivers whose blood i bore and whose blood i had wedded in unga. aye, and yash-noosh walked with me, the wet sand in his hair, and his war spear, broken as he fell upon it, still in his hand. and i knew the time was meet, and saw in the eyes of unga the promise. 'as i say, we came thus through the forest, till the smell of the camp smoke was in our nostrils. and i bent above him, and tore the ptarmigan from his teeth. 'he turned on his side and rested, the wonder mounting in his eyes, and the hand which was under slipping slow toward the knife at his hip. but i took it from him, smiling close in his face. even then he did not understand. so i made to drink from black bottles, and to build high upon the snow a pile--of goods, and to live again the things which had happened on the night of my marriage. i spoke no word, but he understood. yet was he unafraid. there was a sneer to his lips, and cold anger, and he gathered new strength with the knowledge. it was not far, but the snow was deep, and he dragged himself very slow. 'once he lay so long i turned him over and gazed into his eyes. and sometimes he looked forth, and sometimes death. and when i loosed him he struggled on again. in this way we came to the fire. unga was at his side on the instant. his lips moved without sound; then he pointed at me, that unga might understand. and after that he lay in the snow, very still, for a long while. even now is he there in the snow. 'i said no word till i had cooked the ptarmigan. then i spoke to her, in her own tongue, which she had not heard in many years. she straightened herself, so, and her eyes were wonder-wide, and she asked who i was, and where i had learned that speech. '"i am naass," i said. '"you?" she said. "you?" and she crept close that she might look upon me. '"yes," i answered; "i am naass, head man of akatan, the last of the blood, as you are the last of the blood." 'and she laughed. by all the things i have seen and the deeds i have done may i never hear such a laugh again. it put the chill to my soul, sitting there in the white silence, alone with death and this woman who laughed. '"come!" i said, for i thought she wandered. "eat of the food and let us be gone. it is a far fetch from here to akatan." 'but she shoved her face in his yellow mane, and laughed till it seemed the heavens must fall about our ears. i had thought she would be overjoyed at the sight of me, and eager to go back to the memory of old times, but this seemed a strange form to take. '"come!" i cried, taking her strong by the hand. "the way is long and dark. let us hurry!" "where?" she asked, sitting up, and ceasing from her strange mirth. '"to akatan," i answered, intent on the light to grow on her face at the thought. but it became like his, with a sneer to the lips, and cold anger. '"yes," she said; "we will go, hand in hand, to akatan, you and i. and we will live in the dirty huts, and eat of the fish and oil, and bring forth a spawn--a spawn to be proud of all the days of our life. we will forget the world and be happy, very happy. it is good, most good. come! let us hurry. let us go back to akatan." and she ran her hand through his yellow hair, and smiled in a way which was not good. and there was no promise in her eyes. 'i sat silent, and marveled at the strangeness of woman. i went back to the night when he dragged her from me and she screamed and tore at his hair--at his hair which now she played with and would not leave. then i remembered the price and the long years of waiting; and i gripped her close, and dragged her away as he had done. and she held back, even as on that night, and fought like a she-cat for its whelp. and when the fire was between us and the man. i loosed her, and she sat and listened. and i told her of all that lay between, of all that had happened to me on strange seas, of all that i had done in strange lands; of my weary quest, and the hungry years, and the promise which had been mine from the first. aye, i told all, even to what had passed that day between the man and me, and in the days yet young. and as i spoke i saw the promise grow in her eyes, full and large like the break of dawn. and i read pity there, the tenderness of woman, the love, the heart and the soul of unga. and i was a stripling again, for the look was the look of unga as she ran up the beach, laughing, to the home of her mother. the stern unrest was gone, and the hunger, and the weary waiting. 'the time was met. i felt the call of her breast, and it seemed there i must pillow my head and forget. she opened her arms to me, and i came against her. then, sudden, the hate flamed in her eye, her hand was at my hip. and once, twice, she passed the knife. '"dog!" she sneered, as she flung me into the snow. "swine!" and then she laughed till the silence cracked, and went back to her dead. 'as i say, once she passed the knife, and twice; but she was weak with hunger, and it was not meant that i should die. yet was i minded to stay in that place, and to close my eyes in the last long sleep with those whose lives had crossed with mine and led my feet on unknown trails. but there lay a debt upon me which would not let me rest. 'and the way was long, the cold bitter, and there was little grub. the pellys had found no moose, and had robbed my cache. and so had the three white men, but they lay thin and dead in their cabins as i passed. after that i do not remember, till i came here, and found food and fire--much fire.' as he finished, he crouched closely, even jealously, over the stove. for a long while the slush-lamp shadows played tragedies upon the wall. 'but unga!' cried prince, the vision still strong upon him. 'unga? she would not eat of the ptarmigan. she lay with her arms about his neck, her face deep in his yellow hair. i drew the fire close, that she might not feel the frost, but she crept to the other side. and i built a fire there; yet it was little good, for she would not eat. and in this manner they still lie up there in the snow.' 'and you?' asked malemute kid. 'i do not know; but akatan is small, and i have little wish to go back and live on the edge of the world. yet is there small use in life. i can go to constantine, and he will put irons upon me, and one day they will tie a piece of rope, so, and i will sleep good. yet--no; i do not know.' 'but, kid,' protested prince, 'this is murder!' 'hush!' commanded malemute kid. 'there be things greater than our wisdom, beyond our justice. the right and the wrong of this we cannot say, and it is not for us to judge.' naass drew yet closer to the fire. there was a great silence, and in each man's eyes many pictures came and went. the end note: project gutenberg also has an html version of this file which includes the original illustrations in color. see -h.htm or -h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/ / -h/ -h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/ / -h.zip) mr. munchausen [illustration] mr. munchausen _being a true account of some of the recent adventures beyond the styx of the late hieronymus carl friedrich, sometime baron munchausen of bodenwerder, as originally reported for the sunday edition of the gehenna gazette by its special interviewer the late mr. ananias formerly of jerusalem and now first transcribed from the columns of that journal by_ john kendrick bangs embellished with drawings by peter newell [illustration] boston: _printed for noyes, platt & company and published by them at their offices in the pierce building in copley square_, a.d. copyright, , by noyes, platt & company, (incorporated) entered at stationers' hall the lithographed illustrations are printed in eight colours by george h. walker and company, boston press of riggs printing and publishing co. albany, n. y., u. s. a. editor's apology _and_ dedication _in order that there may be no misunderstanding as to the why and the wherefore of this collection of tales it appears to me to be desirable that i should at the outset state my reasons for acting as the medium between the spirit of the late baron munchausen and the reading public. in common with a large number of other great men in history baron munchausen has suffered because he is not understood. i have observed with wondering surprise the steady and constant growth of the idea that baron munchausen was not a man of truth; that his statements of fact were untrustworthy, and that as a realist he had no standing whatsoever. just how this misconception of the man's character has arisen it would be difficult to say. surely in his published writings he shows that same lofty resolve to be true to life as he has seen it that characterises the work of some of the high apostles of realism, who are writing of the things that will teach future generations how we of to-day ordered our goings-on. the note of veracity in baron munchausen's early literary venturings rings as clear and as true certainly as the similar note in the charming studies of manx realism that have come to us of late years from the pen of mr. corridor walkingstick, of gloomster abbey and london. we all remember the glow of satisfaction with which we read mr. walkingstick's great story of the love of the clergyman, john stress, for the charming little heroine, glory partridge. here was something at last that rang true. the picture was painted in the boldest of colours, and, regardless of consequences to himself, mr. walkingstick dared to be real when he might have given rein to his imagination. mr. walkingstick was, thereupon, lifted up by popular favour to the level of an apostle--nay, he even admitted the soft impeachment--and now as a moral teacher he is without a rival in the world of literature. yet the same age that accepts this man as a moral teacher, rejects baron munchausen, who, in different manner perhaps, presented to the world as true and life-like a picture of the conditions of his day as that given to us by mr. walkingstick in his deservedly popular romance, "episcopalians i have met." of course, i do not claim that baron munchausen's stories in bulk or in specified instances, have the literary vigour that is so marked a quality of the latter-day writer, but the point i do wish to urge is that to accept the one as a veracious chronicler of his time and to reject the other as one who indulges his pen in all sorts of grotesque vagaries, without proper regard for the facts, is a great injustice to the man of other times. the question arises, _why_ is this? how has this wrong upon the worthy realist of the eighteenth century been perpetrated? is it an intentional or an unwitting wrong? i prefer to believe that it is based upon ignorance of the baron's true quality, due to the fact that his works are rarely to be found within the reach of the public: in some cases, because of the failure of librarians to comprehend his real motives, his narratives are excluded from public and sunday-school libraries; and because of their extreme age, they are not easily again brought into vogue. i have, therefore, accepted the office of intermediary between the baron and the readers of the present day, in order that his later work, which, while it shows to a marked degree the decadence of his literary powers, may yet serve to demonstrate to the readers of my own time how favourably he compares with some of the literary idols of to-day, in the simple matter of fidelity to fact. if these stories which follow shall serve to rehabilitate baron munchausen as a lover and practitioner of the arts of truth, i shall not have made the sacrifice of my time in vain. if they fail of this purpose i shall still have the satisfaction of knowing that i have tried to render a service to an honest and defenceless man._ _meanwhile i dedicate this volume, with sentiments of the highest regard, to that other great realist_ mr. corridor walkingstick _of_ gloomster abbey j. k. b. contents i. i encounter the old gentleman ii. the sporting tour of mr. munchausen iii. three months in a balloon iv. some hunting stories for children v. the story of jang vi. he tells the twins of fire-works vii. saved by a magic lantern viii. an adventure in the desert ix. decoration day in the cannibal islands x. mr. munchausen's adventure with a shark xi. the baron as a runner xii. mr. munchausen meets his match xiii. wriggletto xiv. the poetic june-bug, together with some remarks on the gillyhooly bird xv. a lucky stroke list of illustrations portrait of mr. munchausen "there was the whale, drawn by magnetic influence to the side of _the lyre_" "as their bullets got to their highest point and began to drop back, i reached out and caught them" "i got nearer and nearer my haven of safety, the bellowing beasts snorting with rage as they followed" "jang buzzed over and sat on his back, putting his sting where it would do the most good" "out of what appeared to be a clear sky came the most extraordinary rain storm you ever saw" "'i am your slave,' he replied to my greeting, kneeling before me, 'i yield all to you'" "i reached the giraffe, raised myself to his back, crawled along his neck and dropped fainting into the tree" "they were celebrating decoration day, strewing flowers on the graves of departed missionaries" "i laughed in the poor disappointed thing's face, and with a howl of despair he rushed back into the sea" "this brought my speed down ten minutes to the mile which made it safe for me to run into a haystack" "at the first whoop mr. bear jumped ten feet and fell over backward on the floor" "he used to wind his tail about a fan and he'd wave it to and fro by the hour" "most singular of all was the fact that, consciously or unconsciously, the insect had butted out a verse" "again i swung my red-flagged brassey in front of the angry creature's face, and what i had hoped for followed" mr. munchausen an account of his recent adventures i i encounter the old gentleman there are moments of supreme embarrassment in the lives of persons given to veracity,--indeed it has been my own unusual experience in life that the truth well stuck to is twice as hard a proposition as a lie so obvious that no one is deceived by it at the outset. i cannot quite agree with my friend, caddy barlow, who says that in a tight place it is better to lie at once and be done with it than to tell the truth which will need forty more truths to explain it, but i must confess that in my forty years of absolute and conscientious devotion to truth i have found myself in holes far deeper than any my most mendacious of friends ever got into. i do not propose, however, to desert at this late hour the goddess i have always worshipped because she leads me over a rough and rocky road, and whatever may be the hardships involved in my wooing i intend to the very end to remain the ever faithful slave of mademoiselle veracité. all of which i state here in prefatory mood, and in order, in so far as it is possible for me to do so, to disarm the incredulous and sniffy reader who may be inclined to doubt the truth of my story of how the manuscript of the following pages came into my possession. i am quite aware that to some the tale will appear absolutely and intolerably impossible. i know that if any other than i told it to me i should not believe it. yet despite these drawbacks the story is in all particulars, essential and otherwise, absolutely truthful. the facts are briefly these: it was not, to begin with, a dark and dismal evening. the snow was not falling silently, clothing a sad and gloomy world in a mantle of white, and over the darkling moor a heavy mist was not rising, as is so frequently the case. there was no soul-stirring moaning of bitter winds through the leafless boughs; so far as i was aware nothing soughed within twenty miles of my bailiwick; and my dog, lying before a blazing log fire in my library, did not give forth an occasional growl of apprehension, denoting the presence or approach of an uncanny visitor from other and mysterious realms: and for two good reasons. the first reason is that it was midsummer when the thing happened, so that a blazing log fire in my library would have been an extravagance as well as an anachronism. the second is that i have no dog. in fact there was nothing unusual, or uncanny in the whole experience. it happened to be a bright and somewhat too sunny july day, which is not an unusual happening along the banks of the hudson. you could see the heat, and if anything had soughed it could only have been the mercury in my thermometer. this i must say clicked nervously against the top of the glass tube and manifested an extraordinary desire to climb higher than the length of the tube permitted. incidentally i may add, even if it be not believed, that the heat was so intense that the mercury actually did raise the whole thermometer a foot and a half above the mantel-shelf, and for two mortal hours, from midday until two by the monastery clock, held it suspended there in mid-air with no visible means of support. not a breath of air was stirring, and the only sounds heard were the expanding creaks of the beams of my house, which upon that particular day increased eight feet in width and assumed a height which made it appear to be a three instead of a two story dwelling. there was little work doing in the house. the children played about in their bathing suits, and the only other active factor in my life of the moment was our hired man who was kept busy in the cellar pouring water on the furnace coal to keep it from spontaneously combusting. we had just had luncheon, burning our throats with the iced tea and with considerable discomfort swallowing the simmering cold roast filet, which we had to eat hastily before the heat of the day transformed it into smoked beef. my youngest boy willie perspired so copiously that we seriously thought of sending for a plumber to solder up his pores, and as for myself who have spent three summers of my life in the desert of sahara in order to rid myself of nervous chills to which i was once unhappily subject, for the first time in my life i was impelled to admit that it was intolerably warm. and then the telephone bell rang. "great scott!" i cried, "who in thunder do you suppose wants to play golf on a day like this?"--for nowadays our telephone is used for no other purpose than the making or the breaking of golf engagements. "me," cried my eldest son, whose grammar is not as yet on a par with his activity. "i'll go." the boy shot out of the dining room and ran to the telephone, returning in a few moments with the statement that a gentleman with a husky voice whose name was none of his business wished to speak with me on a matter of some importance to myself. i was loath to go. my friends the book agents had recently acquired the habit of approaching me over the telephone, and i feared that here was another nefarious attempt to foist a thirty-eight volume tabloid edition of _the world's worst literature_ upon me. nevertheless i wisely determined to respond. "hello," i said, placing my lips against the rubber cup. "hello there, who wants nepperhan?" "is that you?" came the answering question, and, as my boy had indicated, in a voice whose chief quality was huskiness. "i guess so," i replied facetiously;--"it was this morning, but the heat has affected me somewhat, and i don't feel as much like myself as i might. what can i do for you?" "nothing, but you can do a lot for yourself," was the astonishing answer. "pretty hot for literary work, isn't it?" the voice added sympathetically. "very," said i. "fact is i can't seem to do anything these days but perspire." "that's what i thought; and when you can't work ruin stares you in the face, eh? now i have a manuscript--" "oh lord!" i cried. "don't. there are millions in the same fix. even my cook writes." "don't know about that," he returned instantly. "but i do know that there's millions in my manuscript. and you can have it for the asking. how's that for an offer?" "very kind, thank you," said i. "what's the nature of your story?" "it's extremely good-natured," he answered promptly. i laughed. the twist amused me. "that isn't what i meant exactly," said i, "though it has some bearing on the situation. is it a henry james dandy, or does it bear the mark of caine? is it realism or fiction?" "realism," said he. "fiction isn't in my line." "well, i'll tell you," i replied; "you send it to me by post and i'll look it over. if i can use it i will." "can't do it," said he. "there isn't any post-office where i am." "what?" i cried. "no post-office? where in hades are you?" "gehenna," he answered briefly. "the transportation between your country and mine is all one way," he added. "if it wasn't the population here would diminish." "then how the deuce am i to get hold of your stuff?" i demanded. "that's easy. send your stenographer to the 'phone and i'll dictate it," he answered. the novelty of the situation appealed to me. even if my new found acquaintance were some funny person nearer at hand than gehenna trying to play a practical joke upon me, still it might be worth while to get hold of the story he had to tell. hence i agreed to his proposal. "all right, sir," said i. "i'll do it. i'll have him here to-morrow morning at nine o'clock sharp. what's your number? i'll ring you up." "never mind that," he replied. "i'm merely a tapster on your wires. i'll ring _you_ up as soon as i've had breakfast and then we can get to work." "very good," said i. "and may i ask your name?" "certainly," he answered. "i'm munchausen." "what? the baron?" i roared, delighted. "well--i used to be baron," he returned with a tinge of sadness in his voice, "but here in gehenna we are all on an equal footing. i'm plain mr. munchausen of hades now. but that's a detail. don't forget. nine o'clock. good-bye." "wait a moment, baron," i cried. "how about the royalties on this book?" "keep 'em for yourself," he replied. "we have money to burn over here. you are welcome to all the earthly rights of the book. i'm satisfied with the returns on the asbestos edition, already in its th thousand. good-bye." there was a rattle as of the hanging up of the receiver, a short sharp click and a ring, and i realised that he had gone. the next morning in response to a telegraphic summons my stenographer arrived and when i explained the situation to him he was incredulous, but orders were orders and he remained. i could see, however, that as nine o'clock approached he grew visibly nervous, which indicated that he half believed me anyhow, and when at nine to the second the sharp ring of the 'phone fell upon our ears he jumped as if he had been shot. "hello," said i again. "that you, baron?" "the same," the voice replied. "stenographer ready?" "yes," said i. the stenographer walked to the desk, placed the receiver at his ear, and with trembling voice announced his presence. there was a response of some kind, and then more calmly he remarked, "fire ahead, mr. munchausen," and began to write rapidly in short-hand. two days later he handed me a type-written copy of the following stories. the reader will observe that they are in the form of interviews, and it should be stated here that they appeared originally in the columns of the sunday edition of the _gehenna gazette_, a publication of hades which circulates wholly among the best people of that country, and which, if report saith truly, would not print a line which could not be placed in the hands of children, and to whose columns such writers as chaucer, shakespeare, ben jonson, jonah and ananias are frequent contributors. indeed, on the statement of mr. munchausen, all the interviews herein set forth were between himself as the principal and the hon. henry b. ananias as reporter, or were scrupulously edited by the latter before being published. ii the sporting tour of mr. munchausen "good morning, mr. munchausen," said the interviewer of the _gehenna gazette_ entering the apartment of the famous traveller at the hotel deville, where the late baron had just arrived from his sporting tour in the blue hills of cimmeria and elsewhere. "the interests of truth, my dear ananias," replied the baron, grasping me cordially by the hand, "require that i should state it as my opinion that it is not a good morning. in fact, my good friend, it is a very bad morning. can you not see that it is raining cats and dogs without?" "sir," said i with a bow, "i accept the spirit of your correction but not the letter. it is raining indeed, sir, as you suggest, but having passed through it myself on my way hither i can personally testify that it is raining rain, and not a single cat or canine has, to my knowledge, as yet fallen from the clouds to the parched earth, although i am informed that down upon the coast an elephant and three cows have fallen upon one of the summer hotels and irreparably damaged the roof." mr. munchausen laughed. "it is curious, ananias," said he, "what sticklers for the truth you and i have become." "it is indeed, munchausen," i returned. "the effects of this climate are working wonders upon us. and it is just as well. you and i are outclassed by these twentieth century prevaricators concerning whom late arrivals from the upper world tell such strange things. they tell me that lying has become a business and is no longer ranked among the arts or professions." "ah me!" sighed the baron with a retrospective look in his eye, "lying isn't what it used to be, ananias, in your days and mine. i fear it has become one of the lost arts." "i have noticed it myself, my friend, and only last night i observed the same thing to my well beloved sapphira, who was lamenting the transparency of the modern lie, and said that lying to-day is no better than the truth. in our day a prevarication had all of the opaque beauty of an opalescent bit of glass, whereas to-day in the majority of cases it is like a great vulgar plate-glass window, through which we can plainly see the ugly truths that lie behind. but, sir, i am here to secure from you not a treatise upon the lost art of lying, but some idea of the results of your sporting tour. you fished, and hunted, and golfed, and doubtless did other things. you, of course, had luck and made the greatest catch of the season; shot all the game in sight, and won every silver, gold and pewter golf mug in all creation?" "you speak truly, ananias," returned mr. munchausen. "my luck _was_ wonderful--even for one who has been so singularly fortunate as i. i took three tons of speckled beauties with one cast of an ordinary horse whip in the blue hills, and with nothing but a silken line and a minnow hook landed upon the deck of my steam yacht a whale of most tremendous proportions; i shot game of every kind in great abundance and in my golf there was none to whom i could not give with ease seven holes in every nine and beat him out." "seven?" said i, failing to see how the ex-baron could be right. "seven," said he complacently. "seven on the first, and seven on the second nine; fourteen in all of the eighteen holes." "but," i cried, "i do not see how that could be. with fourteen holes out of the eighteen given to your opponent even if you won all the rest you still would be ten down." "true, by ordinary methods of calculation," returned the baron, "but i got them back on a technicality, which i claim is a new and valuable discovery in the game. you see it is impossible to play more than one hole at a time, and i invariably proved to the greens committee that in taking fourteen holes at once my opponent violated the physical possibilities of the situation. in every case the point was accepted as well taken, for if we allow golfers to rise above physical possibilities the game is gone. the integrity of the card is the soul of golf," he added sententiously. "tell me of the whale," said i, simply. "you landed a whale of large proportions on the deck of your yacht with a simple silken line and a minnow hook." "well it's a tough story," the baron replied, handing me a cigar. "but it is true, ananias, true to the last word. i was fishing for eels. sitting on the deck of _the lyre_ one very warm afternoon in the early stages of my trip, i baited a minnow hook and dropped it overboard. it was the roughest day at sea i had ever encountered. the waves were mountain high, and it is the sad fact that one of our crew seated in the main-top was drowned with the spray of the dashing billows. fortunately for myself, directly behind my deck chair, to which i was securely lashed, was a powerful electric fan which blew the spray away from me, else i too might have suffered the same horrid fate. suddenly there came a tug on my line. i was half asleep at the time and let the line pay out involuntarily, but i was wide-awake enough to know that something larger than an eel had taken hold of the hook. i had hooked either a leviathan or a derelict. caution and patience, the chief attributes of a good angler were required. i hauled the line in until it was taut. there were a thousand yards of it out, and when it reached the point of tensity, i gave orders to the engineers to steam closer to the object at the other end. we steamed in five hundred yards, i meanwhile hauling in my line. then came another tug and i let out ten yards. 'steam closer,' said i. 'three hundred yards sou-sou-west by nor'-east.' the yacht obeyed on the instant. i called the captain and let him feel the line. 'what do you think it is?' said i. he pulled a half dozen times. 'feels like a snag,' he said, 'but seein' as there ain't no snags out here, i think it must be a fish.' 'what kind?' i asked. i could not but agree that he was better acquainted with the sea and its denizens than i. 'well,' he replied, 'it is either a sea serpent or a whale.' at the mere mention of the word whale i was alert. i have always wanted to kill a whale. 'captain,' said i, 'can't you tie an anchor onto a hawser, and bait the flukes with a boa constrictor and make sure of him?' he looked at me contemptuously. 'whales eats fish,' said he, 'and they don't bite at no anchors. whales has brains, whales has.' 'what shall we do?' i asked. 'steam closer,' said the captain, and we did so." munchausen took a long breath and for the moment was silent. "well?" said i. "well, ananias," said he. "we resolved to wait. as the captain said to me, 'fishin' is waitin'.' so we waited. 'coax him along,' said the captain. 'how can we do it?' i asked. 'by kindness,' said he. 'treat him gently, persuasive-like and he'll come.' we waited four days and nobody moved and i grew weary of coaxing. 'we've got to do something,' said i to the captain. 'yes,' said he, 'let's _make_ him move. he doesn't seem to respond to kindness.' 'but how?' i cried. 'give him an electric shock,' said the captain. 'telegraph him his mother's sick and may be it'll move him.' 'can't you get closer to him?' i demanded, resenting his facetious manner. 'i can, but it will scare him off,' replied the captain. so we turned all our batteries on the sea. the dynamo shot forth its bolts and along about four o'clock in the afternoon there was the whale drawn by magnetic influence to the side of _the lyre_. he was a beauty, ananias," munchausen added with enthusiasm. "you never saw such a whale. his back was as broad as the deck of an ocean steamer and in his length he exceeded the dimensions of _the lyre_ by sixty feet." "and still you got him on deck?" i asked,--i, ananias, who can stand something in the way of an exaggeration. "yes," said munchausen, lighting his cigar, which had gone out. "another storm came up and we rolled and rolled and rolled, until i thought _the lyre_ was going to capsize." "but weren't you sea-sick?" i asked. "didn't have a chance to be," said munchausen. "i was thinking of the whale all the time. finally there came a roll in which we went completely under, and with a slight pulling on the line the whale was landed by the force of the wave and laid squarely upon the deck." "great sapphira!" said i. "but you just said he was wider and longer than the yacht!" [illustration: "there was the whale drawn by magnetic influence to the side of _the lyre_." _chapter ii._] "he was," sighed munchausen. "he landed on the deck and by sheer force of his weight the yacht went down under him. i swam ashore and the whole crew with me. the next day mr. whale floated in strangled. he'd swallowed the thousand yards of line and it got so tangled in his tonsils that it choked him to death. come around next week and i'll give you a couple of pounds of whalebone for mrs. ananias, and all the oil you can carry." i thanked the old gentleman for his kind offer and promised to avail myself of it, although as a newspaper man it is against my principles to accept gifts from public men. "it was great luck, baron," said i. "or at least it would have been if you hadn't lost your yacht." "that was great luck too," he observed nonchalantly. "it cost me ten thousand dollars a month keeping that yacht in commission. now she's gone i save all that. why it's like finding money in the street, ananias. she wasn't worth more than fifty thousand dollars, and in six months i'll be ten thousand ahead." i could not but admire the cheerful philosophy of the man, but then i was not surprised. munchausen was never the sort of man to let little things worry him. "but that whale business wasn't a circumstance to my catch of three tons of trout with a single cast of a horse-whip in the blue hills," said the baron after a few moments of meditation, during which i could see that he was carefully marshalling his facts. "i never heard of its equal," said i. "you must have used a derrick." "no," he replied suavely. "nothing of the sort. it was the simplest thing in the world. it was along about five o'clock in the afternoon when with my three guides and my valet i drove up the winding roadway of great sulphur mountain on my way to the blue mountain house where i purposed to put up for a few days. i had one of those big mountain wagons with a covered top to it such as the pioneers used on the american plains, with six fine horses to the fore. i held the reins myself, since we were in the midst of a terrific thunderstorm and i felt safer when i did my own driving. all the flaps of the leathern cover were let down at the sides and at the back, and were securely fastened. the roads were unusually heavy, and when we came to the last great hill before the lake all but i were walking, as a measure of relief to the horses. suddenly one of the horses balked right in the middle of the ascent, and in a moment of impatience i gave him a stinging flick with my whip, when like a whirlwind the whole six swerved to one side and started on a dead run upward. the jolt and the unexpected swerving of the wagon threw me from my seat and i landed clear of the wheels in the soft mud of the roadway, fortunately without injury. when i arose the team was out of sight and we had to walk the remainder of the distance to the hotel. imagine our surprise upon arriving there to find the six panting steeds and the wagon standing before the main entrance to the hotel dripping as though they had been through the falls of niagara, and, would you believe it, ananias, inside that leather cover of the wagon, packed as tightly as sardines, were no less than three thousand trout, not one of them weighing less than a pound and some of them getting as high as four. the whole catch weighed a trifle over six thousand pounds." "great heavens, baron," i cried. "where the dickens did they come from?" "that's what i asked myself," said the baron easily. "it seemed astounding at first glance, but investigation showed it after all to be a very simple proposition. the runaways after reaching the top of the hill turned to the left, and clattered on down toward the bridge over the inlet to the lake. the bridge broke beneath their weight and the horses soon found themselves struggling in the water. the harness was strong and the wagon never left them. they had to swim for it, and i am told by a small boy who was fishing on the lake at the time that they swam directly across it, pulling the wagon after them. naturally with its open front and confined back and sides the wagon acted as a sort of drag-net and when the opposite shore was gained, and the wagon was pulled ashore, it was found to have gathered in all the fish that could not get out of the way." the baron resumed his cigar, and i sat still eyeing the ample pattern of the drawing-room carpet. "pretty good catch for an afternoon, eh?" he said in a minute. "yes," said i. "almost too good, baron. those horses must have swam like the dickens to get over so quickly. you would think the trout would have had time to escape." "oh i presume one or two of them did," said munchausen. "but the majority of them couldn't. the horses were all fast, record-breakers anyhow. i never hire a horse that isn't." and with that i left the old gentleman and walked blushing back to the office. i don't doubt for an instant the truth of the baron's story, but somehow or other i feel that in writing it my reputation is in some measure at stake. note--mr. munchausen, upon request of the editor of the _gehenna gazette_ to write a few stories of adventure for his imp's page, conducted by sapphira, contributed the tales which form the substance of several of the following chapters. iii three months in a balloon mr. munchausen was not handsome, but the imps liked him very much, he was so full of wonderful reminiscences, and was always willing to tell anybody that would listen, all about himself. to the heavenly twins he was the greatest hero that had ever lived. napoleon bonaparte, on mr. munchausen's own authority, was not half the warrior that he, the late baron had been, nor was cæsar in his palmiest days, one-quarter so wise or so brave. how old the baron was no one ever knew, but he had certainly lived long enough to travel the world over, and stare every kind of death squarely in the face without flinching. he had fought zulus, indians, tigers, elephants--in fact, everything that fights, the baron had encountered, and in every contest he had come out victorious. he was the only man the children had ever seen that had lost three legs in battle and then had recovered them after the fight was over; he was the only visitor to their house that had been lost in the african jungle and wandered about for three months without food or shelter, and best of all he was, on his own confession, the most truthful narrator of extraordinary tales living. the youngsters had to ask the baron a question only, any one, it mattered not what it was--to start him off on a story of adventure, and as he called upon the twins' father once a month regularly, the children were not long in getting together a collection of tales beside which the most exciting episodes in history paled into insignificant commonplaces. "uncle munch," said the twins one day, as they climbed up into the visitor's lap and disarranged his necktie, "was you ever up in a balloon?" "only once," said the baron calmly. "but i had enough of it that time to last me for a lifetime." "was you in it for long?" queried the twins, taking the baron's watch out of his pocket and flinging it at cerberus, who was barking outside of the window. "well, it seemed long enough," the baron answered, putting his pocket-book in the inside pocket of his vest where the twins could not reach it. "three months off in the country sleeping all day long and playing tricks all night seems a very short time, but three months in a balloon and the constant centre of attack from every source is too long for comfort." "were you up in the air for three whole months?" asked the twins, their eyes wide open with astonishment. "all but two days," said the baron. "for two of those days we rested in the top of a tree in india. the way of it was this: i was always, as you know, a great favourite with the emperor napoleon, of france, and when he found himself involved in a war with all europe, he replied to one of his courtiers who warned him that his army was not in condition: 'any army is prepared for war whose commander-in-chief numbers baron munchausen among his advisers. let me have munchausen at my right hand and i will fight the world.' so they sent for me and as i was not very busy i concluded to go and assist the french, although the allies and i were also very good friends. i reasoned it out this way: in this fight the allies are the stronger. they do not need me. napoleon does. fight for the weak, munchausen, i said to myself, and so i went. of course, when i reached paris i went at once to the emperor's palace and remained at his side until he took the field, after which i remained behind for a few days to put things to rights for the imperial family. unfortunately for the french, the king of prussia heard of my delay in going to the front, and he sent word to his forces to intercept me on my way to join napoleon at all hazards, and this they tried to do. when i was within ten miles of the emperor's headquarters, i was stopped by the prussians, and had it not been that i had provided myself with a balloon for just such an emergency, i should have been captured and confined in the king's palace at berlin, until the war was over. "foreseeing all this, i had brought with me a large balloon packed away in a secret section of my trunk, and while my body-guard was fighting with the prussian troops sent to capture me, i and my valet inflated the balloon, jumped into the car and were soon high up out of the enemy's reach. they fired several shots at us, and one of them would have pierced the balloon had i not, by a rare good shot, fired my own rifle at the bullet, and hitting it squarely in the middle, as is my custom, diverted it from its course, and so saved our lives. "it had been my intention to sail directly over the heads of the attacking party and drop down into napoleon's camp the next morning, but unfortunately for my calculations, a heavy wind came up in the night and the balloon was caught by a northerly blast, and blown into africa, where, poised in the air directly over the desert of sahara, we encountered a dead calm, which kept us stalled up for two miserable weeks." "why didn't you come down?" asked the twins, "wasn't the elevator running?" "we didn't dare," explained the baron, ignoring the latter part of the question. "if we had we'd have wasted a great deal of our gas, and our condition would have been worse than ever. as i told you we were directly over the centre of the desert. there was no way of getting out of it except by long and wearisome marches over the hot, burning sands with the chances largely in favour of our never getting out alive. the only thing to do was to stay just where we were and wait for a favouring breeze. this we did, having to wait four mortal weeks before the air was stirred." "you said two weeks a minute ago, uncle munch," said the twins critically. "two? hem! well, yes it was two, now that i think of it. it's a natural mistake," said the baron stroking his mustache a little nervously. "you see two weeks in a balloon over a vast desert of sand, with nothing to do but whistle for a breeze, is equal to four weeks anywhere else. that is, it seems so. anyhow, two weeks or four, whichever it was, the breeze came finally, and along about midnight left us stranded again directly over an arab encampment near wady halfa. it was a more perilous position really, than the first, because the moment the arabs caught sight of us they began to make frantic efforts to get us down. at first we simply laughed them to scorn and made faces at them, because as far as we could see, we were safely out of reach. this enraged them and they apparently made up their minds to kill us if they could. at first their idea was to get us down alive and sell us as slaves, but our jeers changed all that, and what should they do but whip out a lot of guns and begin to pepper us. "'i'll settle them in a minute,' i said to myself, and set about loading my own gun. would you believe it, i found that my last bullet was the one with which i had saved the balloon from the prussian shot?" "mercy, how careless of you, uncle munch!" said one of the twins. "what did you do?" "i threw out a bag of sand ballast so that the balloon would rise just out of range of their guns, and then, as their bullets got to their highest point and began to drop back, i reached out and caught them in a dipper. rather neat idea, eh? with these i loaded my own rifle and shot every one of the hostile party with their own ammunition, and when the last of the attacking arabs dropped i found there were enough bullets left to fill the empty sand bag again, so that the lost ballast was not missed. in fact, there were enough of them in weight to bring the balloon down so near to the earth that our anchor rope dangled directly over the encampment, so that my valet and i, without wasting any of our gas, could climb down and secure all the magnificent treasures in rugs and silks and rare jewels these robbers of the desert had managed to get together in the course of their depredations. when these were placed in the car another breeze came up, and for the rest of the time we drifted idly about in the heavens waiting for a convenient place to land. in this manner we were blown hither and yon for three months over land and sea, and finally we were wrecked upon a tall tree in india, whence we escaped by means of a convenient elephant that happened to come our way, upon which we rode triumphantly into calcutta. the treasures we had secured from the arabs, unfortunately, we had to leave behind us in the tree, where i suppose they still are. i hope some day to go back and find them." here mr. munchausen paused for a moment to catch his breath. then he added with a sigh. "of course, i went back to france immediately, but by the time i reached paris the war was over, and the emperor was in exile. i was too late to save him--though i think if he had lived some sixty or seventy years longer i should have managed to restore his throne, and imperial splendour to him." the twins gazed into the fire in silence for a minute or two. then one of them asked: "but what did you live on all that time, uncle munch?" "eggs," said the baron. "eggs and occasionally fish. my servant had had the foresight when getting the balloon ready to include, among the things put into the car, a small coop in which were six pet chickens i owned, and without which i never went anywhere. these laid enough eggs every day to keep us alive. the fish we caught when our balloon stood over the sea, baiting our anchor with pieces of rubber gas pipe used to inflate the balloon, and which looked very much like worms." [illustration: "as their bullets got to their highest point and began to drop back, i reached out and caught them." _chapter iii._] "but the chickens?" said the twins. "what did they live on?" the baron blushed. "i am sorry you asked that question," he said, his voice trembling somewhat. "but i'll answer it if you promise never to tell anyone. it was the only time in my life that i ever practised an intentional deception upon any living thing, and i have always regretted it, although our very lives depended upon it." "what was it, uncle munch?" asked the twins, awed to think that the old warrior had ever deceived anyone. "i took the egg shells and ground them into powder, and fed them to the chickens. the poor creatures supposed it was corn-meal they were getting," confessed the baron. "i know it was mean, but what could i do?" "nothing," said the twins softly. "and we don't think it was so bad of you after all. many another person would have kept them laying eggs until they starved, and then he'd have killed them and eaten them up. you let them live." "that may be so," said the baron, with a smile that showed how relieved his conscience was by the twins' suggestion. "but i couldn't do that you know, because they were pets. i had been brought up from childhood with those chickens." then the twins, jamming the baron's hat down over his eyes, climbed down from his lap and went to their play, strongly of the opinion that, though a bold warrior, the baron was a singularly kind, soft-hearted man after all. iv some hunting stories for children the heavenly twins had been off in the mountains during their summer holiday, and in consequence had seen very little of their good old friend, mr. munchausen. he had written them once or twice, and they had found his letters most interesting, especially that one in which he told how he had killed a moose up in maine with his waterbury watch spring, and i do not wonder that they marvelled at that, for it was one of the most extraordinary happenings in the annals of the chase. it seems, if his story is to be believed, and i am sure that none of us who know him has ever had any reason to think that he would deceive intentionally; it seems, i say, that he had gone to maine for a week's sport with an old army acquaintance of his, who had now become a guide in that region. unfortunately his rifle, of which he was very fond, and with which his aim was unerring, was in some manner mislaid on the way, and when they arrived in the woods they were utterly without weapons; but mr. munchausen was not the man to be daunted by any such trifle as that, particularly while his friend had an old army musket, a relic of the war, stored away in the attic of his woodland domicile. "th' only trouble with that ar musket," said the old guide, "ain't so much that she won't shoot straight, nor that she's got a kick onto her like an unbroke mule. what i'm most afeard 'on about your shootin' with her ain't that i think she'll bust neither, for the fact is we ain't got nothin' for to bust her with, seein' as how ammynition is skeerce. i got powder, an' i got waddin', but i ain't got no shot." "that doesn't make any difference," the baron replied. "we can make the shot. have you got any plumbing in the camp? if you have, rip it out, and i'll melt up a water-pipe into bullets." "no, sir," retorted the old man. "plumbin' is one of the things i came here to escape from." "then," said the baron, "i'll use my watch for ammunition. it is only a three-dollar watch and i can spare it." with this determination, mr. munchausen took his watch to pieces, an ordinary time-piece of the old-fashioned kind, and, to make a long story short, shot for several days with the component parts of that useful affair rammed down into the barrel of the old musket. with the stem-winding ball he killed an eagle; with pieces of the back cover chopped up to a fineness of medium-sized shot he brought down several other birds, but the great feat of all was when he started for moose with nothing but the watch-spring in the barrel of the gun. having rolled it up as tight as he could, fastened it with a piece of twine, and rammed it well into the gun, he set out to find the noble animal upon whose life he had designs. after stalking the woods for several hours, he came upon the tracks which told him that his prey was not far off, and in a short while he caught sight of a magnificent creature, his huge antlers held proudly up and his great eyes full of defiance. for a moment the baron hesitated. the idea of destroying so beautiful an animal seemed to be abhorrent to his nature, which, warrior-like as he is, has something of the tenderness of a woman about it. a second glance at the superb creature, however, changed all that, for the baron then saw that to shoot to kill was necessary, for the beast was about to force a fight in which the hunter himself would be put upon the defensive. "i won't shoot you through the head, my beauty," he said, softly, "nor will i puncture your beautiful coat with this load of mine, but i'll kill you in a new way." with this he pulled the trigger. the powder exploded, the string binding the long black spring into a coil broke, and immediately the strip of steel shot forth into the air, made directly toward the neck of the rushing moose, and coiling its whole sinuous length tightly about the doomed creature's throat strangled him to death. as the twins' father said, a feat of that kind entitled the baron to a high place in fiction at least, if not in history itself. the twins were very much wrought up over the incident, particularly, when one too-smart small imp who was spending the summer at the same hotel where they were said that he didn't believe it,--but he was an imp who had never seen a cheap watch, so how should he know anything about what could be done with a spring that cannot be wound up by a great strong man in less than ten minutes? as for the baron he was very modest about the achievement, for when he first appeared at the twins' home after their return he had actually forgotten all about it, and, in fact, could not recall the incident at all, until diavolo brought him his own letter, when, of course, the whole matter came back to him. "it wasn't so very wonderful, anyhow," said the baron. "i should not think, for instance, of bragging about any such thing as that. it was a simple affair all through." "and what did you do with the moose's antlers?" asked angelica. "i hope you brought 'em home with you, because i'd like to see 'em." "i wanted to," said the baron, stroking the twins' soft brown locks affectionately. "i wanted to bring them home for your father to use as a hat rack, dear, but they were too large. when i had removed them from the dead animal, i found them so large that i could not get them out of the forest, they got so tangled up in the trees. i should have had to clear a path twenty feet wide and seven miles long to get them even as far as my friend's hut, and after that they would have had to be carried thirty miles through the woods to the express office." "i guess it's just as well after all," said diavolo. "if they were as big as all that, papa would have had to build a new house to get 'em into." "exactly," said the baron. "exactly. that same idea occurred to me, and for that reason i concluded not to go to the trouble of cutting away those miles of trees. the antlers would have made a very expensive present for your father to receive in these hard times." "it was a good thing you had that watch," the twins observed, after thinking over the baron's adventure. "if you hadn't had that you couldn't have killed the moose." "very likely not," said the baron, "unless i had been able to do as i did in india thirty years ago at a man hunt." "what?" cried the twins. "do they hunt men in india?"? "that all depends, my dears," replied the baron. "it all depends upon what you mean by the word they. men don't hunt men, but animals, great wild beasts sometimes hunt them, and it doesn't often happen that the men escape. in the particular man hunt i refer to i was the creature that was being hunted, and i've had a good deal of sympathy for foxes ever since. this was a regular fox hunt in a way, although i was the fox, and a herd of elephants were the huntsmen." "how queer," said diavolo, unscrewing one of the baron's shirt studs to see if he would fall apart. "not half so queer as my feelings when i realised my position," said the baron with a shake of his head. "i was frightened half to death. it seemed to me that i'd reached the end of my tether at last. i was studying the fauna and flora of india, in a small indian village, known as ah--what was the name of that town! ah--something like rathabad--no, that isn't quite it--however, one name does as well as another in india. it was a good many miles from calcutta, and i'd been living there about three months. the village lay in a small valley between two ranges of hills, none of them very high. on the other side of the westerly hills was a great level stretch of country upon which herds of elephants used to graze. out of this rose these hills, very precipitously, which was a very good thing for the people in the valley, else those elephants would have come over and played havoc with their homes and crops. to me the plains had a great fascination, and i used to wander over them day after day in search of new specimens for my collection of plants and flowers, never thinking of the danger i ran from an encounter with these elephants, who were very ferocious and extremely jealous of the territory they had come through years of occupation to regard as their own. so it happened, that one day, late in the afternoon, i was returning from an expedition over the plains, and, as i had found a large number of new specimens, i was feeling pretty happy. i whistled loudly as i walked, when suddenly coming to a slight undulation in the plain what should i see before me but a herd of sixty-three elephants, some eating, some thinking, some romping, and some lying asleep on the soft turf. now, if i had come quietly, of course, i could have passed them unobserved, but as i told you i was whistling. i forget what the tune was, the marsellaise or die wacht am rhein, or maybe tommie atkins, which enrages the elephants very much, being the national anthem of the british invader. at any rate, whatever the tune was it attracted the attention of the elephants, and then their sport began. the leader lifted his trunk high in the air, and let out a trumpet blast that echoed back from the cliff three miles distant. instantly every elephant was on the alert. those that had been sleeping awoke, and sprang to their feet. those that had been at play stopped in their romp, and under the leadership of the biggest brute of the lot they made a rush for me. i had no gun; nothing except my wits and my legs with which to defend myself, so i naturally began to use the latter until i could get the former to work. it was nip and tuck. they could run faster than i could, and i saw in an instant that without stratagem i could not hope to reach a place of safety. as i have said, the cliff, which rose straight up from the plain like a stone-wall, was three miles away, nor was there any other spot in which i could find a refuge. it occurred to me as i ran that if i ran in circles i could edge up nearer to the cliff all the time, and still keep my pursuers at a distance for the simple reason that an elephant being more or less unwieldy cannot turn as rapidly as a man can, so i kept running in circles. i could run around my short circle in less time than the enemy could run around his larger one, and in this manner i got nearer and nearer my haven of safety, the bellowing beasts snorting with rage as they followed. finally, when i began to see that i was tolerably safe, another idea occurred to me, which was that if i could manage to kill those huge creatures the ivory i could get would make my fortune. but how! that was the question. well, my dearly beloved imps, i admit that i am a fast runner, but i am also a fast thinker, and in less than two minutes i had my plan arranged. i stopped short when about two hundred feet from the cliff, and waited until the herd was fifty feet away. then i turned about and ran with all my might up to within two feet of the cliff, and then turning sharply to the left ran off in that direction. the elephants, thinking they had me, redoubled their speed, but failed to notice that i had turned, so quickly was that movement executed. they failed likewise to notice the cliff, as i had intended. the consequence was the whole sixty-three of them rushed head first, bang! with all their force, into the rock. the hill shook with the force of the blow and the sixty-three elephants fell dead. they had simply butted their brains out." [illustration: "i got nearer and nearer my haven of safety, the bellowing beasts snorting with rage as they followed." _chapter iv._] here the baron paused and pulled vigourously on his cigar, which had almost gone out. "that was fine," said the twins. "what a narrow escape it was for you, uncle munch," said diavolo. "very true," said the great soldier rising, as a signal that his story was done. "in fact you might say that i had sixty-three narrow escapes, one for each elephant." "but what became of the ivory?" asked angelica. "oh, as for that!" said the baron, with a sigh, "i was disappointed in that. they turned out to be all young elephants, and they had lost their first teeth. their second teeth hadn't grown yet. i got only enough ivory to make one paper cutter, which is the one i gave your father for christmas last year." which may account for the extraordinary interest the twins have taken in their father's paper cutter ever since. v the story of jang "did you ever own a dog, baron munchausen?" asked the reporter of the _gehenna gazette_, calling to interview the eminent nobleman during dog show week in cimmeria. "yes, indeed i have," said the baron, "i fancy i must have owned as many as a hundred dogs in my life. to be sure some of the dogs were iron and brass, but i was just as fond of them as if they had been made of plush or lamb's wool. they were so quiet, those iron dogs were; and the brass dogs never barked or snapped at any one." "i never saw a brass dog," said the reporter. "what good are they?" "oh they are likely to be very useful in winter," the baron replied. "my brass dogs used to guard my fire-place and keep the blazing logs from rolling out into my room and setting fire to the rug the khan of tartary gave me for saving his life from a herd of antipodes he and i were hunting in the himalaya mountains." "i don't see what you needed dogs to do that for," said the reporter. "a fender would have done just as well, or a pair of andirons," he added. "that's what these dogs were," said the baron. "they were fire dogs and fire dogs are andirons." ananias pressed his lips tightly together, and into his eyes came a troubled look. it was evident that, revolting as the idea was to him, he thought the baron was trying to deceive him. noting his displeasure, the baron inwardly resolving to be careful how he handled the truth, hastened on with his story. "but dogs were never my favourite animals," he said. "with my pets i am quite as i am with other things. i like to have pets that are entirely different from the pets of other people, and that is why in my day i have made companions of such animals as the sangaree, and the camomile, and the--ah--the two-horned piccolo. i've had tame bees even--in fact my bees used to be the wonder of siam, in which country i was stationed for three years, having been commissioned by a british company to make a study of its climate with a view to finding out if it would pay the company to go into the ice business there. siam is, as you have probably heard, a very warm country, and as ice is a very rare thing in warm countries these english people thought they might make a vast fortune by sending tug-boats up to the arctic ocean, and with them capture and tow icebergs to siam, where they might be cut up and sold to the people at tremendous profit. the scheme was certainly a good one, and i found many of the wealthy siamese quite willing to subscribe for a hundred pounds of ice a week at ten dollars a pound, but it never came to anything because we had no means of preserving the icebergs after we got them into the gulf of siam. the water was so hot that they melted before we could cut them up, and we nearly got ourselves into very serious trouble with the coast people for that same reason. an iceberg, as you know, is a huge affair, and when a dozen or two of them had melted in the gulf they added so to the quantity of water there that fifty miles of the coast line were completely flooded, and thousands of valuable fish, able to live in warm water only, were so chilled that they got pneumonia, and died. you can readily imagine how indignant the siamese fishermen were with my company over the losses they had to bear, but their affection for me personally was so great that they promised not to sue the company if i would promise not to let the thing occur again. this i promised, and all went well. but about the bees, it was while i was living in bangkok that i had them, and they were truly wonderful. there was hardly anything those bees couldn't do after i got them tamed." "how did you tame them, baron," asked ananias. "power of the eye, my boy," returned the baron. "i attracted their attention first and then held it. of course, i tried my plan on one bee first. he tamed the rest. bees are very like children. they like to play stunts--i think it is called stunts, isn't it, when one boy does something, and all his companions try to do the same thing?" "yes," said ananias, "i believe there is such a game, but i shouldn't like to play it with you." "well, that was the way i did with the bees," said mr. munchausen. "i tamed the king bee, and when he had learned all sorts of funny little tricks, such as standing on his head and humming tunes, i let him go back to the swarm. he was gone a week, and then he came back, he had grown so fond of me--as well he might, because i fed him well, giving him a large basket of flowers three times a day. back with him came two or three thousand other bees, and whatever jang did they did." "who was jang?" asked ananias. "that was the first bee's name. king jang. jang is siamese for billie, and as i was always fond of the name, billie, i called him jang. by and by every bee in the lot could hum the star spangled banner and yankee doodle as well as you or i could, and it was grand on those soft moonlight nights we had there, to sit on the back porch of my pagoda and listen to my bee orchestra discoursing sweet music. of course, as soon as jang had learned to hum one tune it was easy enough for him to learn another, and before long the bee orchestra could give us any bit of music we wished to have. then i used to give musicales at my house and all the siamese people, from the king down asked to be invited, so that through my pets my home became one of the most attractive in all asia. "and the honey those bees made! it was the sweetest honey you ever tasted, and every morning when i got down to breakfast there was a fresh bottleful ready for me, the bees having made it in the bottle itself over night. they were the most grateful pets i ever had, and once they saved my life. they used to live in a hive i had built for them in one corner of my room and i could go to bed and sleep with every door in my house open, and not be afraid of robbers, because those bees were there to protect me. one night a lion broke loose from the royal zoo, and while trotting along the road looking for something to eat he saw my front door wide open. in he walked, and began to sniff. he sniffed here and he sniffed there, but found nothing but a pot of anchovy paste, which made him thirstier and hungrier than ever. so he prowled into the parlour, and had his appetite further aggravated by a bronze statue of the emperor of china i had there. he thought in the dim light it was a small-sized human being, and he pounced on it in a minute. well, of course, he couldn't make any headway trying to eat a bronze statue, and the more he tried the more hungry and angry he got. he roared until he shook the house and would undoubtedly have awakened me had it not been that i am always a sound sleeper and never wake until i have slept enough. why, on one occasion, on the northern pacific railway, a train i was on ran into and completely telescoped another while i was asleep in the smoking car, and although i was severely burned and hurled out of the car window to land sixty feet away on the prairie, i didn't wake up for two hours. i was nearly buried alive because they thought i'd been killed, i lay so still. "but to return to the bees. the roaring of the lion disturbed them, and jang buzzed out of his hive to see what was the matter just as the lion appeared at my bed-room door. the intelligent insect saw in a moment what the trouble was, and he sounded the alarm for the rest of the bees, who came swarming out of the hive in response to the summons. jang kept his eye on the lion meanwhile, and just as the prowler caught sight of your uncle peacefully snoring away on the bed, dreaming of his boyhood, and prepared to spring upon me, jang buzzed over and sat down upon his back, putting his sting where it would do the most good. the angry lion, who in a moment would have fastened his teeth upon me, turned with a yelp of pain, and the bite which was to have been mine wrought havoc with his own back. following jang's example, the other bees ranged themselves in line over the lion's broad shoulders, and stung him until he roared with pain. each time he was stung he would whisk his head around like a dog after a flea, and bite himself, until finally he had literally chewed himself up, when he fainted from sheer exhaustion, and i was saved. you can imagine my surprise when next morning i awakened to find a dying lion in my room." "but, baron," said ananias. "i don't understand one thing about it. if you were fast asleep while all this was happening how did you know that jang did those things?" [illustration: "jang buzzed over and sat down upon his back, putting his sting where it would do the most good." _chapter v._] "why, jang told me himself," replied the baron calmly. "could he talk?" cried ananias in amazement. "not as you and i do," said the baron. "of course not, but jang could spell. i taught him how. you see i reasoned it out this way. if a bee can be taught to sing a song which is only a story in music, why can't he be taught to tell a story in real words. it was worth trying anyhow, and i tried. jang was an apt pupil. he was the most intelligent bee i ever met, and it didn't take me more than a month to teach him his letters, and when he once knew his letters it was easy enough to teach him how to spell. i got a great big sheet and covered it with twenty-six squares, and in each of these squares i painted a letter of the alphabet, so that finally when jang came to know them, and wanted to tell me anything he would fly from one square to another until he had spelled out whatever he wished to say. i would follow his movements closely, and we got so after awhile that we could converse for hours without any trouble whatsoever. i really believe that if jang had been a little heavier so that he could push the keys down far enough he could have managed a typewriter as well as anybody, and when i think about his wonderful mind and delicious fancy i deeply regret that there never was a typewriting machine so delicately made that a bee of his weight could make it go. the world would have been very much enriched by the stories jang had in his mind to tell, but it is too late now. he is gone forever." "how did you lose jang, baron?" asked ananias, with tears in his eyes. "he thought i had deceived him," said the baron, with a sigh. "he was as much of a stickler for truth as i am. an american friend of mine sent me a magnificent parterre of wax flowers which were so perfectly made that i couldn't tell them from the real. i was very proud of them, and kept them in my room near the hive. when jang and his tribe first caught sight of them they were delighted and they sang as they had never sung before just to show how pleased they were. then they set to work to make honey out of them. they must have laboured over those flowers for two months before i thought to tell them that they were only wax and not at all real. as i told jang this, i unfortunately laughed, thinking that he could understand the joke of the thing as well as i, but i was mistaken. all that he could see was that he had been deceived, and it made him very angry. bees don't seem to have a well-developed sense of humour. he cast a reproachful glance at me and returned to his hive and on the morning of the third day when i waked up they were moving out. they flew to my lattice and ranged themselves along the slats and waited for jang. in a moment he appeared and at a given signal they buzzed out of my sight, humming a farewell dirge as they went. i never saw them again." here the baron wiped his eyes. "i felt very bad about it," he went on, "and resolved then never again to do anything which even suggested deception, and when several years later i had my crest designed i had a bee drawn on it, for in my eyes my good friend the bee, represents three great factors of the good and successful life--industry, fidelity, and truth." whereupon the baron went his way, leaving ananias to think it over. vi he tells the twins of fire-works there was a great noise going on in the public square of cimmeria when mr. munchausen sauntered into the library at the home of the heavenly twins. "these americans are having a great time of it celebrating their fourth of july," said he, as the house shook with the explosion of a bomb. "they've burnt powder enough already to set ten revolutions revolving, and they're going to outdo themselves to-night in the park. they've made a bicycle out of the two huge pin-wheels, and they're going to make benedict arnold ride a mile on it after it's lit." the twins appeared much interested. they too had heard much of the celebration and some of its joys and when the baron arrived they were primed with questions. "uncle munch," they said, helping the baron to remove his hat and coat, which they threw into a corner so anxious were they to get to work, "do you think there's much danger in little boys having fire-crackers and rockets and pin-wheels, or in little girls having torpeters?" "well, i don't know," the baron answered, warily. "what does your venerable dad say about it?" "he thinks we ought to wait until we are older, but we don't," said the twins. "torpeters never sets nothing afire," said angelica. "that's true," said the baron, kindly; "but after all your father is right. why do you know what happened to me when i was a boy?" "you burnt your thumb," said the twins, ready to make a guess at it. "well, you get me a cigar, and i'll tell you what happened to me when i was a boy just because my father let me have all the fire-works i wanted, and then perhaps you will see how wise your father is in not doing as you wish him to," said mr. munchausen. the twins readily found the desired cigar, after which mr. munchausen settled down comfortably in the hammock, and swinging softly to and fro, told his story. "my dear old father," said he, "was the most indulgent man that ever lived. he'd give me anything in the world that i wanted whether he could afford it or not, only he had an original system of giving which kept him from being ruined by indulgence of his children. he gave me a rhine steamboat once without its costing him a cent. i saw it, wanted it, was beginning to cry for it, when he patted me on the head and told me i could have it, adding, however, that i must never take it away from the river or try to run it myself. that satisfied me. all i wanted really was the happiness of feeling it was mine, and my dear old daddy gave me permission to feel that way. the same thing happened with reference to the moon. he gave it to me freely and ungrudgingly. he had received it from his father, he said, and he thought he had owned it long enough. only, he added, as he had about the steamboat, i must leave it where it was and let other people look at it whenever they wanted to, and not interfere if i found any other little boys or girls playing with its beams, which i promised and have faithfully observed to this day. "of course from such a parent as this you may very easily see everything was to be expected on such a day as the tenth of august which the people in our region celebrated because it was my birthday. he used to let me have my own way at all times, and it's a wonder i wasn't spoiled. i really can't understand how it is that i have become the man i am, considering how i was indulged when i was small. "however, like all boys, i was very fond of celebrating the tenth, and being a more or less ingenious lad, i usually prepared my own fire-works and many things happened which might not otherwise have come to pass if i had been properly looked after as you are. the first thing that happened to me on the tenth of august that would have a great deal better not have happened, was when i was--er--how old are you imps?" "sixteen," said they. "going on eighteen." "nonsense," said the baron. "why you're not more than eight." "nope--we're sixteen," said diavolo. "i'm eight and angelica's eight and twice eight is sixteen." "oh," said the baron. "i see. well, that was exactly the age i was at the time. just eight to a day." "sixteen we said," said the twins. "yes," nodded the baron. "just eight, but going on towards sixteen. my father had given me ten thalers to spend on noises, but unlike most boys i did not care so much for noises as i did for novelties. it didn't give me any particular pleasure to hear a giant cracker go off with a bang. what i wanted to do most of all was to get up some kind of an exhibition that would please the people and that could be seen in the day-time instead of at night when everybody is tired and sleepy. so instead of spending my money on fire-crackers and torpedoes and rockets, i spent nine thalers of it on powder and one thaler on putty blowers. my particular object was to make one grand effort and provide passers-by with a free exhibition of what i was going to call 'munchausen's grand geyser cascade.' to do this properly i had set my eye upon a fish pond not far from the town hall. it was a very deep pond and about a mile in circumference, i should say. putty blowers were then selling at five for a pfennig and powder was cheap as sand owing to the fact that the powder makers, expecting a war, had made a hundred times as much as was needed, and as the war didn't come off, they were willing to take almost anything they could get for it. the consequence was that the powder i got was sufficient in quantity to fill a rubber bag as large as five sofa cushions. this i sank in the middle of the pond, without telling anybody what i intended to do, and through the putty blowers, sealed tightly together end to end, i conducted a fuse, which i made myself, from the powder bag to the shore. my idea was that i could touch the thing off, you know, and that about sixty square feet of the pond would fly up into the air and then fall gracefully back again like a huge fountain. if it had worked as i expected everything would have been all right, but it didn't. i had too much powder, for a second after i had lit the fuse there came a muffled roar and the whole pond in a solid mass, fish and all, went flying up into the air and disappeared. everybody was astonished, not a few were very much frightened. i was scared to death but i never let on to any one that i was the person that had blown the pond off. how high the pond went i don't know, but i do know that for a week there wasn't any sign of it, and then most unexpectedly out of what appeared to be a clear sky there came the most extraordinary rain-storm you ever saw. it literally poured down for two days, and, what i alone could understand, with it came trout and sunfish and minnows, and most singular to all but myself an old scow that was recognised as the property of the owner of the pond suddenly appeared in the sky falling toward the earth at a fearful rate of speed. when i saw the scow coming i was more frightened than ever because i was afraid it might fall upon and kill some of our neighbours. fortunately, however, this possible disaster was averted, for it came down directly over the sharp-pointed lightning-rod on the tower of our public library and stuck there like a piece of paper on a file. "the rain washed away several acres of finely cultivated farms, but the losses on crops and fences and so forth were largely reduced by the fish that came with the storm. one farmer took a rake and caught three hundred pounds of trout, forty pounds of sun-fish, eight turtles, and a minnow in his potato patch in five minutes. others were almost as fortunate, but the damage was sufficiently large to teach me that parents cannot be too careful about what they let their children do on the day they celebrate." "and weren't you ever punished?" asked the twins. "no, indeed," said the baron. "nobody ever knew that i did it because i never told them. in fact you are the only two persons who ever heard about it, and you mustn't tell, because there are still a number of farmers around that region who would sue me for damages in case they knew that i was responsible for the accident." [illustration: "out of what appeared to be a clear sky came the most extraordinary rain storm you ever saw." _chapter vi._] "that was pretty awful," said the twins. "but we don't want to blow up ponds so as to get cascadeses, but we do want torpeters. torpeters aren't any harm, are they, uncle munch?" "well, you can never tell. it all depends on the torpedo. torpedoes are sometimes made carelessly," said the baron. "they ought to be made as carefully as a druggist makes pills. so many pebbles, so much paper, and so much saltpeter and sulphur, or whatever else is used to make them go off. i had a very unhappy time once with a carelessly made torpedo. i had two boxes full. they were those tin-foil torpedoes that little girls are so fond of, and i expected they would make quite a lot of noise, but the first ten i threw down didn't go off at all. the eleventh for some reason or other, i never knew exactly what, i hurled with all my force against the side of my father's barn, and my, what a surprise it was! it smashed in the whole side of the barn and sent seven bales of hay, and our big farm plough bounding down the hillside into the town. the hay-bales smashed down fences; one of them hit a cow-shed on its way down, knocked the back of it to smithereens and then proceeded to demolish the rear end of a small crockery shop that fronted on the main street. it struck the crockery shop square in the middle of its back and threw down fifteen dozen cups and saucers, thirty-two water pitchers, and five china busts of shakespeare. the din was frightful--but i couldn't help that. nobody could blame me, because i had no means of knowing that the man who made the torpedoes was careless and had put a solid ball of dynamite into one of them. so you see, my dear imps, that even torpedoes are not always safe." "yes," said angelica. "i guess i'll play with my dolls on my birthday. they never goes off and blows things up." "that's very wise of you," said the baron. "but what became of the plough, uncle munch?" said diavolo. "oh, the plough didn't do much damage," replied mr. munchausen. "it simply furrowed its way down the hill, across the main street, to the bowling green. it ploughed up about one hundred feet of this before it stopped, but nobody minded that much because it was to have been ploughed and seeded again anyhow within a few days. of course the furrow it made in crossing the road was bad, and to make it worse the share caught one of the water pipes that ran under the street, and ripped it in two so that the water burst out and flooded the street for a while, but one hundred and sixty thousand dollars would have covered the damage." the twins were silent for a few moments and then they asked: "well, uncle munch, what kind of fire-works are safe anyhow?" "my experience has taught me that there are only two kinds that are safe," replied their old friend. "one is a jack-o-lantern and the other is a cigar, and as you are not old enough to have cigars, if you will put on your hats and coats and go down into the garden and get me two pumpkins, i'll make each of you a jack-o'-lantern. what do you say?" "we say yes," said the twins, and off they went, while the baron turning over in the hammock, and arranging a pillow comfortably under his head, went to sleep to dream of more birthday recollections in case there should be a demand for them later on. vii saved by a magic lantern when the sunday dinner was over, the twins, on mr. munchausen's invitation, climbed into the old warrior's lap, angelica kissing him on the ear, and diavolo giving his nose an affectionate tweak. "ah!" said the baron. "that's it!" "what's what, uncle munch?" demanded diavolo. "why that," returned the baron. "i was wondering what it was i needed to make my dinner an unqualified success. there was something lacking, but what it was, we have had so much, i could not guess until you two imps kissed me and tweaked my nasal feature. now i know, for really a feeling of the most blessed contentment has settled upon my soul." "don't you wish _you_ had two youngsters like us, uncle munch?" asked the twins. "do i wish i had? why i have got two youngsters like you," the baron replied. "i've got 'em right here too." "where?" asked the twins, looking curiously about them for the other two. "on my knees, of course," said he. "you are mine. your papa gave you to me--and you are as like yourselves as two peas in a pod." "i--i hope you aren't going to take us away from here," said the twins, a little ruefully. they were very fond of the baron, but they didn't exactly like the idea of being given away. "oh no--not at all," said the baron. "your father has consented to keep you here for me and your mother has kindly volunteered to look after you. there is to be no change, except that you belong to me, and, vice versa, i belong to you." "and i suppose, then," said diavolo, "if you belong to us you've got to do pretty much what we tell you to?" "exactly," responded mr. munchausen. "if you should ask me to tell you a story i'd have to do it, even if you were to demand the full particulars of how i spent christmas with mtulu, king of the taafe eatars, on the upper congo away down in africa--which is a tale i have never told any one in all my life." "it sounds as if it might be interesting," said the twins. "those are real candy names, aren't they?" "yes," said the baron. "taafe sounds like taffy and mtulu is very suggestive of chewing gum. that's the curious thing about the savage tribes of africa. their names often sound as if they might be things to eat instead of people. perhaps that is why they sometimes eat each other--though, of course, i won't say for sure that that is the real explanation of cannibalism." "what's cannon-ballism?" asked angelica. "he didn't say cannon-ballism," said diavolo, scornfully. "it was candy-ballism." "well--you've both come pretty near it," said the baron, "and we'll let the matter rest there, or i won't have time to tell you how christmas got me into trouble with king mtulu." the baron called for a cigar, which the twins lighted for him and then he began. "you may not have heard," he said, "that some twenty or thirty years ago i was in command of an expedition in africa. our object was to find lake majolica, which we hoped would turn up half way between lollokolela and the clebungo mountains. lollokolela was the furthermost point to which civilisation had reached at that time, and was directly in the pathway to the clebungo mountains, which the natives said were full of gold and silver mines and scattered all over which were reputed to be caves in which diamonds and rubies and other gems of the rarest sort were to be found in great profusion. no white man had ever succeeded in reaching this marvellously rich range of hills for the reason that after leaving lollokolela there was, as far as was known, no means of obtaining water, and countless adventurous spirits had had to give up because of the overpowering thirst which the climate brought upon them. "under such circumstances it was considered by a company of gentlemen in london to be well worth their while to set about the discovery of a lake, which they decided in advance to call majolica, for reasons best known to themselves; they probably wanted to jar somebody with it. and to me was intrusted the mission of leading the expedition. i will confess that i did not want to go for the very good reason that i did not wish to be eaten alive by the savage tribes that infested that region, but the company provided me with a close fitting suit of mail, which i wore from the time i started until i returned. it was very fortunate for me that i was so provided, for on three distinct occasions i was served up for state dinners and each time successfully resisted the carving knife and as a result, was thereafter well received, all the chiefs looking upon me as one who bore a charmed existence." here the baron paused long enough for the twins to reflect upon and realise the terrors which had beset him on his way to lake majolica, and be it said that if they had thought him brave before they now deemed him a very hero of heroes. "when i set out," said the baron, "i was accompanied by ten zanzibaris and a thousand tins of condensed dinners." "a thousand what, uncle munch?" asked jack, his mouth watering. "condensed dinners," said the baron, "i had a lot of my favourite dinners condensed and put up in tins. i didn't expect to be gone more than a year and a thousand dinners condensed and tinned, together with the food i expected to find on the way, elephant meat, rhinoceros steaks, and tiger chops, i thought would suffice for the trip. i could eat the condensed dinners and my followers could have the elephant's meat, rhinoceros steaks, and tiger chops--not to mention the bananas and other fruits which grow wild in the african jungle. it was not long, however, before i made the discovery that the zanzibaris, in order to eat tigers, need to learn first how to keep tigers from eating them. we went to bed late one night on the fourth day out from lollokolela, and when we waked up the next morning every mother's son of us, save myself, had been eaten by tigers, and again it was nothing but my coat of mail that saved me. there were eighteen tigers' teeth sticking into the sleeve of the coat, as it was. you can imagine my distress at having to continue the search for lake majolica alone. it was then that i acquired the habit of talking to myself, which has kept me young ever since, for i enjoy my own conversation hugely, and find myself always a sympathetic listener. i walked on for days and days, until finally, on christmas eve, i reached king mtulu's palace. of course your idea of a palace is a magnificent five-story building with beautiful carvings all over the front of it, marble stair-cases and handsomely painted and gilded ceilings. king mtulu's palace was nothing of the sort, although for that region it was quite magnificent, the walls being decorated with elephants' tusks, crocodile teeth and many other treasures such as delight the soul of the central african. "now as i may not have told you, king mtulu was the fiercest of the african chiefs, and it is said that up to the time when i outwitted him no white man had ever encountered him and lived to tell the tale. consequently, when without knowing it on this sultry christmas eve, laden with the luggage and the tinned dinners and other things i had brought with me i stumbled upon the blood-thirsty monarch i gave myself up for lost. "'who comes here to disturb the royal peace?' cried mtulu, savagely, as i crossed the threshold. "'it is i, your highness,' i returned, my face blanching, for i recognized him at once by the ivory ring he wore in the end of his nose. "'who is i?' retorted mtulu, picking up his battle axe and striding forward. "a happy thought struck me then. these folks are superstitious. perhaps the missionaries may have told these uncivilised creatures the story of santa claus. i will pretend that i am santa claus. so i answered, 'who is i, o mtulu, bravest of the taafe chiefs? i am santa claus, the children's friend, and bearer of gifts to and for all.' "mtulu gazed at me narrowly for a moment and then he beat lightly upon a tom-tom at his side. immediately thirty of the most villainous-looking natives, each armed with a club, appeared. "'arrest that man,' said mtulu, 'before he goes any farther. he is an impostor.' "'if your majesty pleases,' i began. "'silence!' he cried, 'i am fierce and i eat men, but i love truth. the truthful man has nothing to fear from me, for i have been converted from my evil ways and since last new year's day i have eaten only those who have attempted to deceive me. you will be served raw at dinner to-morrow night. my respect for your record as a man of courage leads me to spare you the torture of the frying-pan. you are baron munchausen. i recognized you the moment you turned pale. another man would have blushed.' "so i was carried off and shut up in a mud hovel, the interior walls of which were of white, a fact which strangely enough, preserved my life when later i came to the crucial moment. i had brought with me, among other things, for my amusement solely, a magic lantern. as a child, i had always been particularly fond of pictures, and when i thought of the lonely nights in africa, with no books at hand, no theatres, no cotillions to enliven the monotony of my life, i resolved to take with me my little magic-lantern as much for company as for anything else. it was very compact in form. it folded up to be hardly larger than a wallet containing a thousand one dollar bills, and the glass lenses of course could be carried easily in my trousers pockets. the views, instead of being mounted on glass, were put on a substance not unlike glass, but thinner, called gelatine. all of these things i carried in my vest pockets, and when mtulu confiscated my luggage the magic lantern and views of course escaped his notice. "christmas morning came and passed and i was about to give myself up for lost, for mtulu was not a king to be kept from eating a man by anything so small as a suit of mail, when i received word that before dinner my captor and his suite were going to pay me a formal parting call. night was coming on and as i sat despondently awaiting the king's arrival, i suddenly bethought me of a lantern slide of the british army, standing and awaiting the command to fire, i happened to have with me. it was a superb view--lifelike as you please. why not throw that on the wall and when mtulu enters he will find me apparently with a strong force at my command, thought i. it was no sooner thought than it was done and my life was saved. hardly was that noble picture reflected upon the rear wall of my prison when the door opened and mtulu, followed by his suite, appeared. i rose to greet him, but apparently he saw me not. mute with terror he stood upon the threshold gazing at that terrible line of soldiers ready as he thought to sweep him and his men from the face of the earth with their death-dealing bullets. [illustration: "'i am your slave,' he replied to my greeting, kneeling before me, 'i yield all to you.'" _chapter vii._] "'i am your slave,' he replied to my greeting, kneeling before me, 'i yield all to you.' "'i thought you would,' said i. 'but i ask nothing save the discovery of lake majolica. if within twenty-four hours lake majolica is not discovered i give the command to fire!' then i turned and gave the order to carry arms, and lo! by a quick change of slides, the army appeared at a carry. mtulu gasped with terror, but accepted my ultimatum. i was freed, lake majolica was discovered before ten o'clock the next morning, and at five o'clock i was on my way home, the british army reposing quietly in my breast pocket. it was a mighty narrow escape!" "i should say so," said the twins. "but mtulu must have been awful stupid not to see what it was." "didn't he see through it when he saw you put the army in your pocket?" asked diavolo. "no," said the baron, "that frightened him worse than ever, for you see he reasoned this way. if i could carry an army in my pocket-book, what was to prevent my carrying mtulu himself and all his tribe off in the same way! he thought i was a marvellous man to be able to do that." "well, we guess he was right," said the twins, as they climbed down from the baron's lap to find an atlas and search the map of africa for lake majolica. this they failed to find and the baron's explanation is unknown to me, for when the imps returned, the warrior had departed. viii an adventure in the desert "the editor has a sort of notion, mr. munchausen," said ananias, as he settled down in the big arm-chair before the fire in the baron's library, "that he'd like to have a story about a giraffe. public taste has a necky quality about it of late." "what do you say to that, sapphira?" asked the baron, politely turning to mrs. ananias, who had called with her husband. "are you interested in giraffes?" "i like lions better," said sapphira. "they roar louder and bite more fiercely." "well, suppose we compromise," said the baron, "and have a story about a poodle dog. poodle dogs sometimes look like lions, and as a rule they are as gentle as giraffes." "i know a better scheme than that," put in ananias. "tell us a story about a lion and a giraffe, and if you feel disposed throw in a few poodles for good measure. i'm writing on space this year." "that's so," said sapphira, wearily. "i could say it was a story about a lion and ananias could call it a giraffe story, and we'd each be right." "very well," said the baron, "it shall be a story of each, only i must have a cigar before i begin. cigars help me to think, and the adventure i had in the desert of sahara with a lion, a giraffe, and a slippery elm tree was so long ago that i shall have to do a great deal of thinking in order to recall it." so the baron went for a cigar, while ananias and sapphira winked enviously at each other and lamented their lost glory. in a minute the baron returned with the weed, and after lighting it, began his story. "i was about twenty years old when this thing happened to me," said he. "i had gone to africa to investigate the sand in the desert of sahara for a sand company in america. as you may already have heard, sand is a very useful thing in a great many ways, more particularly however in the building trades. the sand company was formed for the purpose of supplying sand to everybody that wanted it, but land in america at that time was so very expensive that there was very little profit in the business. people who owned sand banks and sand lots asked outrageous prices for their property; and the sea-shore people were not willing to part with any of theirs because they needed it in their hotel business. the great attraction of a seaside hotel is the sand on the beach, and of course the proprietors weren't going to sell that. they might better even sell their brass bands. so the sand company thought it might be well to build some steam-ships, load them with oysters, or mowing machines, or historical novels, or anything else that is produced in the united states, and in demand elsewhere; send them to egypt, sell the oysters, or mowing machines, or historical novels, and then have the ships fill up with sand from the sahara, which they could get for nothing, and bring it back in ballast to the united states." "it must have cost a lot!" said ananias. "not at all," returned the baron. "the profits on the oysters and mowing machines and historical novels were so large that all expenses both ways were more than paid, so that when it was delivered in america the sand had really cost less than nothing. we could have thrown it all overboard and still have a profit left. it was i who suggested the idea to the president of the sand company--his name was bartlett, or--ah--mulligan--or some similar well-known american name, i can't exactly recall it now. however, mr. bartlett, or mr. mulligan, or whoever it was, was very much pleased with the idea and asked me if i wouldn't go to the sahara, investigate the quality of the sand, and report; and as i was temporarily out of employment i accepted the commission. six weeks later i arrived in cairo and set out immediately on a tour of the desert. i went alone because i preferred not to take any one into my confidence, and besides one can always be more independent when he has only his own wishes to consult. i also went on foot, for the reason that camels need a great deal of care--at least mine would have, if i'd had one, because i always like to have my steeds well groomed whether there is any one to see them or not. so to save myself trouble i started off alone on foot. in twenty-four hours i travelled over a hundred miles of the desert, and the night of the second day found me resting in the shade of a slippery elm tree in the middle of an oasis, which after much suffering and anxiety i had discovered. it was a beautiful moonlight night and i was enjoying it hugely. there were no mosquitoes or insects of any kind to interfere with my comfort. no insects could have flown so far across the sands. i have no doubt that many of them have tried to get there, but up to the time of my arrival none had succeeded, and i felt as happy as though i were in paradise. "after eating my supper and taking a draught of the delicious spring water that purled up in the middle of the oasis, i threw myself down under the elm tree, and began to play my violin, without which in those days i never went anywhere." "i didn't know you played the violin," said sapphira. "i thought your instrument was the trombone--plenty of blow and a mighty stretch." "i don't--now," said the baron, ignoring the sarcasm. "i gave it up ten years ago--but that's a different story. how long i played that night i don't know, but i do know that lulled by the delicious strains of the music and soothed by the soft sweetness of the atmosphere i soon dropped off to sleep. suddenly i was awakened by what i thought to be the distant roar of thunder. 'humph!' i said to myself. 'this is something new. a thunder storm in the desert of sahara is a thing i never expected to see, particularly on a beautifully clear moonlight night'--for the moon was still shining like a great silver ball in the heavens, and not a cloud was anywhere to be seen. then it occurred to me that perhaps i had been dreaming, so i turned over to go to sleep again. hardly had i closed my eyes when a second ear-splitting roar came bounding over the sands, and i knew that it was no dream, but an actual sound that i heard. i sprang to my feet and looked about the horizon and there, a mere speck in the distance, was something--for the moment i thought a cloud, but in another instant i changed my mind, for glancing through my telescope i perceived it was not a cloud but a huge lion with the glitter of hunger in his eye. what i had mistaken for the thunder was the roar of this savage beast. i seized my gun and felt for my cartridge box only to discover that i had lost my ammunition and was there alone, unarmed, in the great desert, at the mercy of that savage creature, who was drawing nearer and nearer every minute and giving forth the most fearful roars you ever heard. it was a terrible moment and i was in despair. "'it's all up with you, baron,' i said to myself, and then i caught sight of the tree. it seemed my only chance. i must climb that. i tried, but alas! as i have told you it was a slippery elm tree, and i might as well have tried to climb a greased pole. despite my frantic efforts to get a grip upon the trunk i could not climb more than two feet without slipping back. it was impossible. nothing was left for me to do but to take to my legs, and i took to them as well as i knew how. my, what a run it was, and how hopeless. the beast was gaining on me every second, and before me lay mile after mile of desert. 'better give up and treat the beast to a breakfast, baron,' i moaned to myself. 'when there's only one thing to do, you might as well do it and be done with it. your misery will be over the more quickly if you stop right here.' as i spoke these words, i slowed up a little, but the frightful roaring of the lion unnerved me for an instant, or rather nerved me on to a spurt, which left the lion slightly more to the rear--and which resulted in the saving of my life; for as i ran on, what should i see about a mile ahead but another slippery elm tree, and under it stood a giraffe who had apparently fallen asleep while browsing among its upper branches, and filling its stomach with its cooling cocoanuts. the giraffe had its back to me, and as i sped on i formed my plan. i would grab hold of the giraffe's tail; haul myself up onto his back; climb up his neck into the tree, and then give my benefactor a blow between the eyes which would send him flying across the desert before the lion could come along and get up into the tree the same way i did. the agony of fear i went through as i approached the long-necked creature was something dreadful. suppose the giraffe should be awakened by the roaring of the lion before i got there and should rush off himself to escape the fate that awaited me? i nearly dropped, i was so nervous, and the lion was now not more than a hundred yards away. i could hear his breath as he came panting on. i redoubled my speed; his pants came closer, closer, until at length after what seemed a year, i reached the giraffe, caught his tail, raised myself up to his back, crawled along his neck and dropped fainting into the tree just as the lion sprang upon the giraffe's back and came on toward me. what happened then i don't know, for as i have told you i swooned away; but i do know that when i came to, the giraffe had disappeared and the lion lay at the foot of the tree dead from a broken neck." "a broken neck?" demanded sapphira. "yes," returned the baron. "a broken neck! from which i concluded that as the lion reached the nape of the giraffe's neck, the giraffe had waked up and bent his head toward the earth, thus causing the lion to fall head first to the ground instead of landing as he had expected in the tree with me." "it was wonderful," said sapphira, scornfully. "yes," said ananias, "but i shouldn't think a lion could break his neck falling off a giraffe. perhaps it was one of the slippery elm cocoanuts that fell on him." "well, of course," said the baron, rising, "that would all depend upon the height of the giraffe. mine was the tallest one i ever saw." "about how tall?" asked ananias. "well," returned the baron, thoughtfully, as if calculating, "did you ever see the eiffel tower?" "yes," said ananias. "well," observed the baron, "i don't think my giraffe was more than half as tall as that." with which estimate the baron bowed his guests out of the room, and with a placid smile on his face, shook hands with himself. "mr. and mrs. ananias are charming people," he chuckled, "but amateurs both--deadly amateurs." [illustration: "i reached the giraffe, raised myself to his back, crawled along his neck and dropped fainting into the tree." _chapter viii._] ix decoration day in the cannibal islands "uncle munch," said diavolo as he clambered up into the old warrior's lap, "i don't suppose you could tell us a story about decoration day could you?" "i think i might try," said mr. munchausen, puffing thoughtfully upon his cigar and making a ring with the smoke for angelica to catch upon her little thumb. "i might try--but it will all depend upon whether you want me to tell you about decoration day as it is celebrated in the united states, or the way a band of missionaries i once knew in the cannibal islands observed it for twenty years or more." "why can't we have both stories?" said angelica. "i think that would be the nicest way. two stories is twice as good as one." "well, i don't know," returned mr. munchausen. "you see the trouble is that in the first instance i could tell you only what a beautiful thing it is that every year the people have a day set apart upon which they especially honour the memory of the noble fellows who lost their lives in defence of their country. i'm not much of a poet and it takes a poet to be able to express how beautiful and grand it all is, and so i should be afraid to try it. besides it might sadden your little hearts to have me dwell upon the almost countless number of heroes who let themselves be killed so that their fellow-citizens might live in peace and happiness. i'd have to tell you about hundreds and hundreds of graves scattered over the battle fields that no one knows about, and which, because no one knows of them, are not decorated at all, unless nature herself is kind enough to let a little dandelion or a daisy patch into the secret, so that they may grow on the green grass above these forgotten, unknown heroes who left their homes, were shot down and never heard of afterwards." "does all heroes get killed?" asked angelica. "no," said mr. munchausen. "i and a great many others lived through the wars and are living yet." "well, how about the missionaries?" said diavolo. "i didn't know they had decoration day in the cannibal islands." "i didn't either until i got there," returned the baron. "but they have and they have it in july instead of may. it was one of the most curious things i ever saw and the natives, the men who used to be cannibals, like it so much that if the missionaries were to forget it they'd either remind them of it or have a celebration of their own. i don't know whether i ever told you about my first experience with the cannibals--did i?" "i don't remember it, but if you had i would have," said diavolo. "so would i," said angelica. "i remember most everything you say, except when i want you to say it over again, and even then i haven't forgotten it." "well, it happened this way," said the baron. "it was when i was nineteen years old. i sort of thought at that time i'd like to be a sailor, and as my father believed in letting me try whatever i wanted to do i took a position as first mate of a steam brig that plied between san francisco and nepaul, taking san francisco canned tomatoes to nepaul and bringing nepaul pepper back to san francisco, making several dollars both ways. perhaps i ought to explain to you that nepaul pepper is red, and hot; not as hot as a furnace fire, but hot enough for your papa and myself when we order oysters at a club and have them served so cold that we think they need a little more warmth to make them palatable and digestible. you are not yet old enough to know the meaning of such words as palatable and digestible, but some day you will be and then you'll know what your uncle means. at any rate it was on the return voyage from nepaul that the water tank on the _betsy s._ went stale and we had to stop at the first place we could to fill it up with fresh water. so we sailed along until we came in sight of an island and the captain appointed me and two sailors a committee of three to go ashore and see if there was a spring anywhere about. we went, and the first thing we knew we were in the midst of a lot of howling, hungry savages, who were crazy to eat us. my companions were eaten, but when it came to my turn i tried to reason with the chief. 'now see here, my friend,' said i, 'i'm perfectly willing to be served up at your breakfast, if i can only be convinced that you will enjoy eating me. what i don't want is to have my life wasted!' 'that's reasonable enough,' said he. 'have you got a sample of yourself along for me to taste?' 'i have,' i replied, taking out a bottle of nepaul pepper, that by rare good luck i happened to have in my pocket. 'that is a portion of my left foot powdered. it will give you some idea of what i taste like,' i added. 'if you like that, you'll like me. if you don't, you won't.'" "that was fine," said diavolo. "you told pretty near the truth, too, uncle munch, because you are hot stuff yourself, ain't you?" "i am so considered, my boy," said mr. munchausen. "the chief took a teaspoonful of the pepper down at a gulp, and let me go when he recovered. he said he guessed i wasn't quite his style, and he thought i'd better depart before i set fire to the town. so i filled up the water bag, got into the row-boat, and started back to the ship, but the _betsy s._ had gone and i was forced to row all the way to san francisco, one thousand, five hundred and sixty-two miles distant. the captain and crew had given us all up for lost. i covered the distance in six weeks, living on water and nepaul pepper, and when i finally reached home, i told my father that, after all, i was not so sure that i liked a sailor's life. but i never forgot those cannibals or their island, as you may well imagine. they and their home always interested me hugely and i resolved if the fates ever drove me that way again, i would go ashore and see how the people were getting on. the fates, however, were a long time in drawing me that way again, for it was not until july, ten years ago that i reached there the second time. i was off on a yachting trip, with an english friend, when one afternoon we dropped anchor off that cannibal island. "'let's go ashore,' said i. 'what for?' said my host; and then i told him the story and we went, and it was well we did so, for it was then and there that i discovered the new way the missionaries had of celebrating decoration day. "no sooner had we landed than we noticed that the island had become civilised. there were churches, and instead of tents and mud-hovels, beautiful residences appeared here and there, through the trees. 'i fancy this isn't the island,' said my host. 'there aren't any cannibals about here.' i was about to reply indignantly, for i was afraid he was doubting the truth of my story, when from the top of a hill, not far distant, we heard strains of music. we went to see whence it came, and what do you suppose we saw? five hundred villainous looking cannibals marching ten abreast along a fine street, and, cheering them from the balconies of the houses that fronted on the highway, were the missionaries and their friends and their children and their wives. "'this can't be the place, after all,' said my host again. "'yes it is,' said i, 'only it has been converted. they must be celebrating some native festival.' then as i spoke the procession stopped and the head missionary followed by a band of beautiful girls, came down from a platform and placed garlands of flowers and beautiful wreaths on the shoulders and heads of those reformed cannibals. in less than an hour every one of the huge black fellows was covered with roses and pinks and fragrant flowers of all kinds, and then they started on parade again. it was a fine sight, but i couldn't understand what it was all done for until that night, when i dined with the head missionary--and what do you suppose it was?" "i give it up," said diavolo, "maybe the missionaries thought the cannibals didn't have enough clothes on." "i guess i can't guess," said angelica. "they were celebrating decoration day," said mr. munchausen. "they were strewing flowers on the graves of departed missionaries." "you didn't tell us about any graves," said diavolo. [illustration: "they were celebrating decoration day ... strewing flowers on the graves of departed missionaries." _chapter ix._] "why certainly i did," said the baron. "the cannibals themselves were the only graves those poor departed missionaries ever had. every one of those five hundred savages was the grave of a missionary, my dears, and having been converted, and taught that it was not good to eat their fellow-men, they did all in their power afterwards to show their repentance, keeping alive the memory of the men they had treated so badly by decorating themselves on memorial day--and one old fellow, the savagest looking, but now the kindest-hearted being in the world, used always to wear about his neck a huge sign, upon which he had painted in great black letters: here lies john thomas wilkins, sailor. departed this life, may th, . he was a man of splendid taste. "the old cannibal had eaten wilkins and later when he had been converted and realised that he himself was the grave of a worthy man, as an expiation he devoted his life to the memory of john thomas wilkins, and as a matter of fact, on the cannibal island decoration day he would lie flat on the floor all the day, groaning under the weight of a hundred potted plants, which he placed upon himself in memory of wilkins." here mr. munchausen paused for breath, and the twins went out into the garden to try to imagine with the aid of a few practical experiments how a cannibal would look with a hundred potted plants adorning his person. x mr. munchausen's adventure with a shark mr. and mrs. henry b. ananias. _thursdays._ _cimmeria._ this was the card sent by the reporter of the _gehenna gazette_, and mrs. ananias to mr. munchausen upon his return from a trip to mortal realms concerning which many curious reports have crept into circulation. owing to a rumour persistently circulated at one time, mr. munchausen had been eaten by a shark, and it was with the intention of learning, if possible, the basis for the rumour that ananias and sapphira called upon the redoubtable baron of other days. mr. munchausen graciously received the callers and asked what he could do for them. "our readers, mr. munchausen," explained ananias, "have been much concerned over rumours of your death at the hands of a shark." "sharks have no hands," said the baron quietly. "well--that aside," observed ananias. "were you killed by a shark?" "not that i recall," said the baron. "i may have been, but i don't remember it. indeed i recall only one adventure with a shark. that grew out of my mission on behalf of france to the czar of russia. i carried letters once from the king of france to his imperial coolness the czar." "what was the nature of the letters?" asked ananias. "i never knew," replied the baron. "as i have said, it was a secret mission, and the french government never took me into its confidence. the only thing i know about it is that i was sent to st. petersburg, and i went, and in the course of time i made myself much beloved of both the people and his majesty the czar. i am the only person that ever lived that was liked equally by both, and if i had attached myself permanently to the czar, russia would have been a different country to-day." "what country would it have been, mr. munchausen," asked sapphira innocently, "germany or siam?" "i can't specify, my dear madame," the baron replied. "it wouldn't be fair. but, at any rate, i went to russia, and was treated warmly by everybody, except the climate, which was, as it is at all times, very freezing. that's the reason the russian people like the climate. it is the only thing the czar can't change by imperial decree, and the people admire its independence and endure it for that reason. but as i have said, everybody was pleased with me, and the czar showed me unusual attention. he gave fêtes in my honour. he gave the most princely dinners, and i met the very best people in st. petersburg, and at one of these dinners i was invited to join a yachting party on a cruise around the world. "well, of course, though a landsman in every sense of the word, i am fond of yachting, and i immediately accepted the invitation. the yacht we went on was the boomski zboomah, belonging to prince--er--now what was that prince's name! something like--er--sheeroff or jibski--or--er--well, never mind that. i meet so many princes it is difficult to remember their names. we'll say his name was jibski." "suppose we do," said ananias, with a jealous grin. "jibski is such a remarkable name. it will look well in print." "all right," said the baron, "jibski be it. the yacht belonged to prince jibski, and she was a beauty. there was a stateroom and a steward for everybody on board, and nothing that could contribute to a man's comfort was left unattended to. we set sail on the rd of august, and after cruising about the north coast of europe for a week or two, we steered the craft south, and along about the middle of september we reached the amphibian islands, and anchored. it was here that i had my first and last experience with sharks. if they had been plain, ordinary sharks i'd have had an easy time of it, but when you get hold of these amphibian sharks you are likely to get yourself into twenty-three different kinds of trouble." "my!" said sapphira. "all those? does the number include being struck by lightning?" "yes," the baron answered, "and when you remember that there are only twenty-four different kinds altogether you can see what a peck of trouble an amphibian shark can get you into. i thought my last hour had come when i met with him. you see when we reached the amphibian islands, we naturally thought we'd like to go ashore and pick the cocoanuts and raisins and other things that grow there, and when i got upon dry land again i felt strongly tempted to go down upon the beautiful little beach in the harbour and take a swim. prince jibski advised me against it, but i was set upon going. he told me the place was full of sharks, but i wasn't afraid because i was always a remarkably rapid swimmer, and i felt confident of my ability, in case i saw a shark coming after me, to swim ashore before he could possibly catch me, provided i had ten yards start. so in i went leaving my gun and clothing on the beach. oh, it was fun! the water was quite warm, and the sandy bottom of the bay was deliciously soft and pleasant to the feet. i suppose i must have sported in the waves for ten or fifteen minutes before the trouble came. i had just turned a somersault in the water, when, as my head came to the surface, i saw directly in front of me, the unmistakable fin of a shark, and to my unspeakable dismay not more than five feet away. as i told you, if it had been ten yards away i should have had no fear, but five feet meant another story altogether. my heart fairly jumped into my mouth. it would have sunk into my boots if i had had them on, but i hadn't, so it leaped upward into my mouth as i turned to swim ashore, by which time the shark had reduced the distance between us by one foot. i feared that all was up with me, and was trying to think of an appropriate set of last words, when prince jibski, noting my peril, fired one of the yacht's cannon in our direction. ordinarily this would have been useless, for the yacht's cannon was never loaded with anything but a blank charge, but in this instance it was better than if it had been loaded with ball and shot, for not only did the sound of the explosion attract the attention of the shark and cause him to pause for a moment, but also the wadding from the gun dropped directly upon my back, so showing that prince jibski's aim was not as good as it might have been. had the cannon been loaded with a ball or a shell, you can very well understand how it would have happened that yours truly would have been killed then and there." "we should have missed you," said ananias sweetly. "thanks," said the baron. "but to resume. the shark's pause gave me the start i needed, and the heat from the burning wadding right between my shoulders caused me to redouble my efforts to get away from the shark and it, so that i never swam faster in my life, and was soon standing upon the shore, jeering at my fearful pursuer, who, strange to say, showed no inclination to stop the chase now that i was, as i thought, safely out of his reach. i didn't jeer very long i can tell you, for in another minute i saw why the shark didn't stop chasing me, and why amphibian sharks are worse than any other kind. that shark had not only fins like all other sharks to swim with, but he had likewise three pairs of legs that he could use on land quite as well as he could use the fins in the water. and then began the prettiest chase you ever saw in your life. as he emerged from the water i grabbed up my gun and ran. round and round the island we tore, i ahead, he thirty or forty yards behind, until i got to a place where i could stop running and take a hasty shot at him. then i aimed, and fired. my aim was good, but struck one of the huge creature's teeth, broke it off short, and bounded off to one side. this made him more angry than ever, and he redoubled his efforts to catch me. i redoubled mine, until i could get another shot at him. the second shot, like the first, struck the creature in the teeth, only this time it was more effective. the bullet hit his jaw lengthwise, and knocked every tooth on that side of his head down his throat. so it went. i ran. he pursued. i fired; he lost his teeth, until finally i had knocked out every tooth he had, and then, of course, i wasn't afraid of him, and let him come up with me. with his teeth he could have ground me to atoms at one bite. without them he was as powerless as a bowl of currant jelly, and when he opened his huge jaws, as he supposed to bite me in two, he was the most surprised looking fish you ever saw on land or sea to discover that the effect his jaws had upon my safety was about as great as had they been nothing but two feather bed mattresses." "you must have been badly frightened, though," said ananias. "no," said the baron. "i laughed in the poor disappointed thing's face, and with a howl of despair, he rushed back into the sea again. i made the best time i could back to the yacht for fear he might return with assistance." "and didn't you ever see him again, baron?" asked sapphira. "yes, but only from the deck of the yacht as we were weighing anchor," said mr. munchausen. "i saw him and a dozen others like him doing precisely what i thought they would do, going ashore to search me out so as to have a little cold munch for dinner. i'm glad they were disappointed, aren't you?" "yes, indeed," said ananias and sapphira, but not warmly. ananias was silent for a moment, and then walking over to one of the bookcases, he returned in a moment, bringing with him a huge atlas. "where are the amphibian islands, mr. munchausen?" he said, opening the book. "show them to me on the map. i'd like to print the map with my story." "oh, i can't do that," said the baron, "because they aren't on the map any more. when i got back to europe and told the map-makers about the dangers to man on those islands, they said that the interests of humanity demanded that they be lost. so they took them out of all the geographies, and all the cyclopædias, and all the other books, so that nobody ever again should be tempted to go there; and there isn't a school-teacher or a sailor in the world to-day who could tell you where they are." "but, you know, don't you?" persisted ananias. "well, i did," said the baron; "but, really i have had to remember so many other things that i have forgotten that. all that i know is that they were named from the fact that they were infested by amphibious animals, which are animals that can live on land as well as on water." "how strange!" said sapphira. "it's just too queer for anything," said ananias, "but on the whole i'm not surprised." and the baron said he was glad to hear it. [illustration: "i laughed in the poor disappointed thing's face, and with a howl of despair he rushed back into the sea." _chapter x._] xi the baron as a runner the twins had been on the lookout for the baron for at least an hour, and still he did not come, and the little imps were beginning to feel blue over the prospect of getting the usual sunday afternoon story. it was past four o'clock, and for as long a time as they could remember the baron had never failed to arrive by three o'clock. all sorts of dreadful possibilities came up before their mind's eye. they pictured the baron in accidents of many sorts. they conjured up visions of him lying wounded beneath the ruins of an apartment house, or something else equally heavy that might have fallen upon him on his way from his rooms to the station, but that he was more than wounded they did not believe, for they knew that the baron was not the sort of man to be killed by anything killing under the sun. "i wonder where he can be?" said angelica, uneasily to her brother, who was waiting with equal anxiety for their common friend. "oh, he's all right!" said diavolo, with a confidence he did not really feel. "he'll turn up all right, and even if he's two hours late he'll be here on time according to his own watch. just you wait and see." and they did wait and they did see. they waited for ten minutes, when the baron drove up, smiling as ever, but apparently a little out of breath. i should not dare to say that he was really out of breath, but he certainly did seem to be so, for he panted visibly, and for two or three minutes after his arrival was quite unable to ask the imps the usual question as to their very good health. finally, however, the customary courtesies of the greeting were exchanged, and the decks were cleared for action. "what kept you, uncle munch?" asked the twins, as they took up their usual position on the baron's knees. "what what?" replied the warrior. "kept me? why, am i late?" "two hours," said the twins. "dad gave you up and went out for a walk." "nonsense," said the baron. "i'm never that late." here he looked at his watch. "why i do seem to be behind time. there must be something wrong with our time-pieces. i can't be two hours late, you know." "well, let's say you are on time, then," said the twins. "what kept you?" "a very funny accident on the railroad," said the baron lighting a cigar. "queerest accident that ever happened to me on the railroad, too. our engine ran away." the twins laughed as if they thought the baron was trying to fool them. "really," said the baron. "i left town as usual on the two o'clock train, which, as you know, comes through in half an hour, without a stop. everything went along smoothly until we reached the vitriol reservoir, when much to the surprise of everybody the train came to a stand-still. i supposed there was a cow on the track, and so kept in my seat for three or four minutes as did every one else. finally the conductor came through and called to the brakeman at the end of our car to see if his brakes were all right. "'it's the most unaccountable thing,' he said to me. 'here's this train come to a dead stop and i can't see why. there isn't a brake out of order on any one of the cars, and there isn't any earthly reason why we shouldn't go ahead.' "'maybe somebody's upset a bottle of glue on the track,' said i. i always like to chaff the conductor, you know, though as far as that is concerned, i remember once when i was travelling on a south american railway our train was stopped by highwaymen, who smeared the tracks with a peculiar sort of gum. they'd spread it over three miles of track, and after the train had gone lightly over two miles of it the wheels stuck so fast ten engines couldn't have moved it. that was a terrible affair." "i don't think we ever heard of that, did we?" asked angelica. "i don't remember it," said diavolo. "well, you would have remembered it, if you had ever heard of it," said the baron. "it was too dreadful to be forgotten--not for us, you know, but for the robbers. it was one of the imperial trains in brazil, and if it hadn't been for me the emperor would have been carried off and held for ransom. the train was brought to a stand-still by this gluey stuff, as i have told you, and the desperadoes boarded the cars and proceeded to rifle us of our possessions. the emperor was in the car back of mine, and the robbers made directly for him, but fathoming their intention i followed close upon their heels. "'you are our game,' said the chief robber, tapping the emperor on the shoulder, as he entered the imperial car. "'hands off,' i cried throwing the ruffian to one side. "he scowled dreadfully at me, the emperor looked surprised, and another one of the robbers requested to know who was i that i should speak with so much authority. 'who am i?' said i, with a wink at the emperor. 'who am i? who else but baron munchausen of the bodenwerder national guard, ex-friend of napoleon of france, intimate of the mikado of japan, and famed the world over as the deadliest shot in two hemispheres.' "the desperadoes paled visibly as i spoke, and after making due apologies for interfering with the train, fled shrieking from the car. they had heard of me before. "'i thank you, sir,' began the emperor, as the would-be assassins fled, but i cut him short. 'they must not be allowed to escape,' i said, and with that i started in pursuit of the desperate fellows, overtook them, and glued them with the gum they had prepared for our detention to the face of a precipice that rose abruptly from the side of the railway, one hundred and ten feet above the level. there i left them. we melted the glue from the tracks by means of our steam heating apparatus, and were soon booming merrily on our way to rio janeiro when i was fêted and dined continuously for weeks by the people, though strange to say the emperor's behaviour toward me was very cool." "and did the robbers ever get down?" asked the twins. "yes, but not in a way they liked," mr. munchausen replied. "the sun came out, and after a week or two melted the glue that held them to the precipice, whereupon they fell to its base and were shattered into pieces so small there wasn't an atom of them to be found when a month later i passed that way again on my return trip." "and didn't the emperor treat you well, uncle munch?" asked the imps. "no--as i told you he was very cool towards me, and i couldn't understand it, then, but i do now," said the baron. "you see he was very much in need of ready cash, the emperor was, and as the taxpayers were already growling about the expenses of the government he didn't dare raise the money by means of a tax. so he arranged with the desperadoes to stop the train, capture him, and hold him for ransom. then when the ransom came along he was going to divide up with them. my sudden appearance, coupled with my determination to rescue him, spoiled his plan, you see, and so he naturally wasn't very grateful. poor fellow, i was very sorry for it afterward, because he really was an excellent ruler, and his plan of raising the money he needed wasn't a bit less honest than most other ways rulers employ to obtain revenue for state purposes." "well, now, let's get back to the runaway engine," said the twins. "you can tell us more about south america after you get through with that. how did the engine come to run away?" "it was simple enough," said the baron. "the engineer, after starting the train came back into the smoking car to get a light for his pipe, and while he was there the coupling-pin between the engine and the train broke, and off skipped the engine twice as fast as it had been going before. the relief from the weight of the train set its pace to a mile a minute instead of a mile in two minutes, and there we were at a dead stop in front of the vitriol station with nothing to move us along. when the engineer saw what had happened he fainted dead away, because you know if a collision had occurred between the runaway engine and the train ahead he would have been held responsible." "couldn't the fireman stop the engine?" asked the twins. "no. that is, it wouldn't be his place to do it, and these railway fellows are queer about that sort of thing," said the baron. "the engineers would go out upon a strike if the railroad were to permit a stoker to manage the engine, and besides that the stoker wouldn't undertake to do it at a stoker's wages, so there wasn't any help to be looked for there. the conductor happened to be nearsighted, and so he didn't find out that the engine was missing until he had wasted ten or twenty minutes examining the brakes, by which time, of course, the runaway was miles and miles up the track. then the engineer came to, and began to wring his hands and moan in a way that was heart-rending. the conductor, too, began to cry, and all the brakemen left the train and took to the woods. they weren't going to have any of the responsibility for the accident placed on their shoulders. whether they will ever turn up again i don't know. but i realised as soon as anybody else that something had to be done, so i rushed into the telegraph office and telegraphed to all the station masters between the vitriol reservoir and cimmeria to clear the track of all trains, freight, local, or express, or somebody would be hurt, and that i myself would undertake to capture the runaway engine. this they all promised to do, whereupon i bade good-bye to my fellow-travellers, and set off up the track myself at full speed. in a minute i strode past sulphur springs, covering at least eight ties at a stretch. in two minutes i thundered past lava hurst, where i learned that the engine had twenty miles start of me. i made a rapid calculation mentally--i always was strong in mental arithmetic, which showed that unless i was tripped up or got side-tracked somewhere i might overtake the runaway before it reached noxmere. redoubling my efforts, my stride increased to twenty ties at a jump, and i made the next five miles in two minutes. it sounds impossible, but really it isn't so. it is hard to run as fast as that at the start, but when you have got your start the impetus gathered in the first mile's run sends you along faster in the second, and so your speed increases by its own force until finally you go like the wind. at gasdale i had gained two miles on the engine, at sneakskill i was only fifteen miles behind, and upon my arrival at noxmere there was scarcely a mile between me and the fugitive. unfortunately a large crowd had gathered at noxmere to see me pass through, and some small boy had brought a dog along with him and the dog stood directly in my path. if i ran over the dog it would kill him and might trip me up. if i jumped with the impetus i had there was no telling where i would land. it was a hard point to decide either way, but i decided in favour of the jump, simply to save the dog's life, for i love animals. i landed three miles up the road and ahead of the engine, though i didn't know that until i had run ten miles farther on, leaving the engine a hundred yards behind me at every stride. it was at miasmatica that i discovered my error and then i tried to stop. it was almost in vain; i dragged my feet over the ties, but could only slow down to a three-minute gait. then i tried to turn around and slow up running backward; this brought my speed down ten minutes to the mile, which made it safe for me to run into a hay-stack at the side of the railroad just this side of cimmeria. then, of course, i was all right. i could sit down and wait for the engine, which came booming along forty minutes later. as it approached i prepared to board it, and in five minutes was in full control. that made it easy enough for me to get back here without further trouble. i simply reversed the lever, and back we came faster than i can describe, and just one hour and a half from the time of the mishap the runaway engine was restored to its deserted train and i reached your station here in good order. i should have walked up, but for my weariness after that exciting run, which as you see left me very much out of breath, and which made it necessary for me to hire that worn-out old hack instead of walking up as is my wont." [illustration: "this brought my speed down ten minutes to the mile, which made it safe for me to run into a haystack." _chapter xi._] "yes, we see you are out of breath," said the twins, as the baron paused. "would you like to lie down and take a rest?" "above all things," said the baron. "i'll take a nap here until your father returns," which he proceeded at once to do. while he slept the two imps gazed at him curiously, angelica, a little suspiciously. "bub," said she, in a whisper, "do you think that was a true story?" "well, i don't know," said diavolo. "if anybody else than uncle munch had told it, i wouldn't have believed it. but he hates untruth. i know because he told me so." "that's the way i feel about it," said angelica. "of course, he can run as fast as that, because he is very strong, but what i can't see is how an engine ever could run away from its train." "that's what stumps me," said diavolo. xii mr. munchausen meets his match (reported by henry w. ananias for the _gehenna gazette_.) when mr. munchausen, accompanied by ananias and sapphira, after a long and tedious journey from cimmeria to the cool and wooded heights of the blue sulphur mountains, entered the portals of the hotel where the greater part of his summers are spent, the first person to greet him was beelzebub sandboy,--the curly-headed imp who acted as "head front" of the blue sulphur mountain house, his eyes a-twinkle and his swift running feet as ever ready for a trip to any part of the hostelry and back. beelzy, as the imp was familiarly known, as the party entered, was in the act of carrying a half-dozen pitchers of iced-water upstairs to supply thirsty guests with the one thing needful and best to quench that thirst, and in his excitement at catching sight once again of his ancient friend the baron, managed to drop two of the pitchers with a loud crash upon the office floor. this, however, was not noticed by the powers that ruled. beelzy was not perfect, and as long as he smashed less than six pitchers a day on an average the management was disposed not to complain. "there goes my friend beelzy," said the baron, as the pitchers fell. "i am delighted to see him. i was afraid he would not be here this year since i understand he has taken up the study of theology." "theology?" cried ananias. "in hades?" "how foolish," said sapphira. "we don't need preachers here." "he'd make an excellent one," said mr. munchausen. "he is a lad of wide experience and his fish and bear stories are wonderful. if he can make them gee, as he would put it, with his doctrines he would prove a tremendous success. thousands would flock to hear him for his bear stories alone. as for the foolishness of his choice, i think it is a very wise one. everybody can't be a stoker, you know." at any rate, whatever the reasons for beelzebub's presence, whether he had given up the study of theology or not, there he was plying his old vocation with the same perfection of carelessness as of yore, and apparently no farther along in the study of theology than he was the year before when he bade mr. munchausen "good-bye forever" with the statement that now that he was going to lead a pious life the chances were he'd never meet his friend again. "i don't see why they keep such a careless boy as that," said sapphira, as beelzy at the first landing turned to grin at mr. munchausen, emptying the contents of one of his pitchers into the lap of a nervous old gentleman in the office below. "he adds an element of excitement to a not over-exciting place," explained mr. munchausen. "on stormy days here the men make bets on what fool thing beelzy will do next. he blacked all the russet shoes with stove polish one year, and last season in the rush of his daily labours he filled up the water-cooler with soft coal instead of ice. he's a great bell-boy, is my friend beelzy." a little while later when mr. munchausen and his party had been shown to their suite, beelzy appeared in their drawing-room and was warmly greeted by mr. munchausen, who introduced him to mr. and mrs. ananias. "well," said mr. munchausen, "you're here again, are you?" "no, indeed," said beelzy. "i ain't here this year. i'm over at the coal-yards shovellin' snow. i'm my twin brother that died three years before i was born." "how interesting," said sapphira, looking at the boy through her lorgnette. beelzy bowed in response to the compliment and observed to the baron: "you ain't here yourself this season, be ye?" "no," said mr. munchausen, drily. "i've gone abroad. you've given up theology i presume?" "sorter," said beelzy. "it was lonesome business and i hadn't been at it more'n twenty minutes when i realised that bein' a missionary ain't all jam and buckwheats. it's kind o' dangerous too, and as i didn't exactly relish the idea o' bein' et up by samoans an' feejees i made up my mind to give it up an' stick to bell-boyin' for another season any how; but i'll see you later, mr. munchausen. i've got to hurry along with this iced-water. it's overdue now, and we've got the kickinest lot o' folks here this year you ever see. one man here the other night got as mad as hookey because it took forty minutes to soft bile an egg. said two minutes was all that was necessary to bile an egg softer'n mush, not understanding anything about the science of eggs in a country where hens feeds on pebbles." "pebbles?" cried mr. munchausen. "what, do they lay roc's eggs?" beelzy grinned. "no, sir--they lay hen's eggs all right, but they're as hard as adam's aunt." "i never heard of chickens eating pebbles," observed sapphira with a frown. "do they really relish them?" "i don't know, ma'am," said beelzy. "i ain't never been on speakin' terms with the hens, ma'am, and they never volunteered no information. they eat 'em just the same. they've got to eat something and up here on these mountains there ain't anything but gravel for 'em to eat. that's why they do it. then when it comes to the eggs, on a diet like that, cobblestones ain't in it with 'em for hardness, and when you come to bite 'em it takes a week to get 'em soft, an' a steam drill to get 'em open--an' this feller kicked at forty minutes! most likely he's swearin' around upstairs now because this iced-water ain't came; and it ain't more than two hours since he ordered it neither." "what an unreasonable gentleman," said sapphira. "ain't he though!" said beelzy. "and he ain't over liberal neither. he's been here two weeks now and all the money i've got out of him was a five-dollar bill i found on his bureau yesterday morning. there's more money in theology than there is in him." with this beelzebub grabbed up the pitcher of water, and bounded out of the room like a frightened fawn. he disappeared into the dark of the corridor, and a few moments later was evidently tumbling head over heels up stairs, if the sounds that greeted the ears of the party in the drawing-room meant anything. the next morning when there was more leisure for beelzy the baron inquired as to the state of his health. "oh it's been pretty good," said he. "pretty good. i'm all right now, barrin' a little gout in my right foot, and ice-water on my knee, an' a crick in my back, an' a tired feelin' all over me generally. ain't had much to complain about. had the measles in december, and the mumps in february; an' along about the middle o' may the whoopin' cough got a holt of me; but as it saved my life i oughtn't to kick about that." here beelzy looked gratefully at an invisible something--doubtless the recollection in the thin air of his departed case of whooping cough, for having rescued him from an untimely grave. "that is rather curious, isn't it?" queried sapphira, gazing intently into the boy's eyes. "i don't exactly understand how the whooping cough could save anybody's life, do you, mr. munchausen?" "beelzy, this lady would have you explain the situation, and i must confess that i am myself somewhat curious to learn the details of this wonderful rescue," said mr. munchausen. "well, i must say," said beelzy, with a pleased smile at the very great consequence of his exploit in the lady's eyes, "if i was a-goin' to start out to save people's lives generally i wouldn't have thought a case o' whoopin' cough would be of much use savin' a man from drownin', and i'm sure if a feller fell out of a balloon it wouldn't help him much if he had ninety dozen cases o' whoopin' cough concealed on his person; but for just so long as i'm the feller that has to come up here every june, an' shoo the bears out o' the hotel, i ain't never goin' to be without a spell of whoopin' cough along about that time if i can help it. i wouldn't have been here now if it hadn't been for it." "you referred just now," said sapphira, "to shooing bears out of the hotel. may i inquire what useful function in the ménage of a hotel a bear-shooer performs?" "what useful what?" asked beelzy. "function--duty--what does the duty of a bear-shooer consist in?" explained mr. munchausen. "is he a blacksmith who shoes bears instead of horses?" "he's a bear-chaser," explained beelzy, "and i'm it," he added. "that, ma'am, is the function of a bear-shooer in the menagerie of a hotel." sapphira having expressed herself as satisfied, beelzebub continued. "you see this here house is shut up all winter, and when everybody's gone and left it empty the bears come down out of the mountains and use it instead of a cave. it's more cosier and less windier than their dens. so when the last guest has gone, and all the doors are locked, and the band gone into winter quarters, down come the bears and take possession. they generally climb through some open window somewhere. they divide up all the best rooms accordin' to their position in bear society and settle down to a regular hotel life among themselves." "but what do they feed upon?" asked sapphira. "oh they'll eat anything when they're hungry," said beelzy. "sofa cushions, parlor rugs, hotel registers--anything they can fasten their teeth to. last year they came in through the cupola, burrowin' down through the snow to get at it, and there they stayed enjoyin' life out o' reach o' the wind and storm, snug's bugs in rugs. year before last there must ha' been a hundred of 'em in the hotel when i got here, but one by one i got rid of 'em. some i smoked out with some cigars mr. munchausen gave me the summer before; some i deceived out, gettin' 'em to chase me through the winders, an' then doublin' back on my tracks an' lockin' 'em out. it was mighty wearin' work. "last june there was twice as many. by actual tab i shooed two hundred and eight bears and a panther off into the mountains. when the last one as i thought disappeared into the woods i searched the house from top to bottom to see if there was any more to be got rid of. every blessed one of the five hundred rooms i went through, and not a bear was left that i could see. i can tell you, i was glad, because there was a partickerly ugly run of 'em this year, an' they gave me a pile o' trouble. they hadn't found much to eat in the hotel, an' they was disappointed and cross. as a matter of fact, the only things they found in the place they could eat was a piano stool and an old hair trunk full o' paper-covered novels, which don't make a very hearty meal for two hundred and eight bears and a panther." "i should say not," said sapphira, "particularly if the novels were as light as most of them are nowadays." "i can't say as to that," said beelzy. "i ain't got time to read 'em and so i ain't any judge. but all this time i was sufferin' like hookey with awful spasms of whoopin' cough. i whooped so hard once it smashed one o' the best echoes in the place all to flinders, an' of course that made the work twice as harder. so, naturally, when i found there warn't another bear left in the hotel, i just threw myself down anywhere, and slept. my! how i slept. i don't suppose anything ever slept sounder'n i did. and then it happened." beelzy gave his trousers a hitch and let his voice drop to a stage whisper that lent a wondrous impressiveness to his narration. "as i was a-layin' there unconscious, dreamin' of home and father, a great big black hungry bruin weighin' six hundred and forty-three pounds, that had been hidin' in the bread oven in the bakery, where i hadn't thought of lookin' for him, came saunterin' along, hummin' a little tune all by himself, and lickin' his chops with delight at the idee of havin' me raw for his dinner. i lay on unconscious of my danger, until he got right up close, an' then i waked up, an' openin' my eyes saw this great black savage thing gloatin' over me an' tears of joy runnin' out of his mouth as he thought of the choice meal he was about to have. he was sniffin' my bang when i first caught sight of him." "mercy!" cried sapphira, "i should think you'd have died of fright." [illustration: "at the first whoop mr. bear jumped ten feet and fell over backwards on the floor." _chapter xii._] "i did," said beelzy, politely, "but i came to life again in a minute. 'oh lor!' says i, as i see how hungry he was. 'this here's the end o' me;' at which the bear looked me straight in the eye, licked his chops again, and was about to take a nibble off my right ear when 'whoop!' i had a spasm of whoopin'. well, ma'am, i guess you know what that means. there ain't nothin' more uncanny, more terrifyin' in the whole run o' human noises, barrin' a german opery, than the whoop o' the whoopin' cough. at the first whoop mr. bear jumped ten feet and fell over backwards onto the floor; at the second he scrambled to his feet and put for the door, but stopped and looked around hopin' he was mistaken, when i whooped a third time. the third did the business. that third whoop would have scared indians. it was awful. it was like a tornado blowin' through a fog-horn with a megaphone in front of it. when he heard that, mr. bear turned on all four of his heels and started on a scoot up into the woods that must have carried him ten miles before i quit coughin'. "an' that's why, ma'am, i say that when you've got to shoo bears for a livin', an attack o' whoopin' cough is a useful thing to have around." saying which, beelzy departed to find number 's left boot which he had left at number 's door by some odd mistake. "what do you think of that, mr. munchausen?" asked sapphira, as beelzy left the room. "i don't know," said mr. munchausen, with a sigh. "i'm inclined to think that i am a trifle envious of him. the rest of us are not in his class." xiii wriggletto it was in the afternoon of a beautiful summer day, and mr. munchausen had come up from the simmering city of cimmeria to spend a day or two with diavolo and angelica and their venerable parents. they had all had dinner, and were now out on the back piazza overlooking the magnificent river styx, which flowed from the mountains to the sea, condescending on its way thither to look in upon countless insignificant towns which had grown up on its banks, among which was the one in which diavolo and angelica had been born and lived all their lives. mr. munchausen was lying comfortably in a hammock, collecting his thoughts. angelica was somewhat depressed, but diavolo was jubilant and all because in the course of a walk they had had that morning diavolo had killed a snake. "it was fine sport," said diavolo. "he was lying there in the sun, and i took a stick and put him out of his misery in two minutes." here diavolo illustrated the process by whacking the baron over his waist-coat with a small malacca stick he carried. "well, i didn't like it," said angelica. "i don't care for snakes, but somehow or other it seems to me we'd ought to have left him alone. he wasn't hurting anybody off there. if he'd come walking on our place, that would have been one thing, but we went walking where he was, and he had as much right to take a sun-bath there as we had." "that's true enough," put in mr. munchausen, resolved after diavolo's whack, to side against him. "you've just about hit it, angelica. it wasn't polite of you in the first place, to disturb his snakeship in his nap, and having done so, i can't see why diavolo wanted to kill him." "oh, pshaw!" said diavolo, airily. "what's snakes good for except to kill? i'll kill 'em every chance i get. they aren't any good." "all right," said mr. munchausen, quietly. "i suppose you know all about it; but i know a thing or two about snakes myself that do not exactly agree with what you say. they are some good sometimes, and, as a matter of fact, as a general rule, they are less apt to attack you without reason than you are to attack them. a snake is rather inclined to mind its own business unless he finds it necessary to do otherwise. occasionally too you'll find a snake with a truly amiable character. i'll never forget my old pet wriggletto, for instance, and as long as i remember him i can't help having a warm corner for snakes in my heart." here mr. munchausen paused and puffed thoughtfully on his cigar as a far-away half-affectionate look came into his eye. "who was wriggletto?" asked diavolo, transferring a half dollar from mr. munchausen's pocket to his own. "who was he?" cried mr. munchausen. "you don't mean to say that i have never told you about wriggletto, my pet boa-constrictor, do you?" "you never told me," said angelica. "but i'm not everybody. maybe you've told some other little imps." "no, indeed!" said mr. munchausen. "you two are the only little imps i tell stories to, and as far as i am concerned, while i admit you are not everybody you are somebody and that's more than everybody is. wriggletto was a boa-constrictor i once knew in south america, and he was without exception, the most remarkable bit of a serpent i ever met. genial, kind, intelligent, grateful and useful, and, after i'd had him a year or two, wonderfully well educated. he could write with himself as well as you or i can with a pen. there's a recommendation for you. few men are all that--and few boa-constrictors either, as far as that goes. i admit wriggletto was an exception to the general run of serpents, but he was all that i claim for him, nevertheless." "what kind of a snake did you say he was?" asked diavolo. "a boa-constrictor," said mr. munchausen, "and i knew him from his childhood. i first encountered wriggletto about ten miles out of para on the river amazon. he was being swallowed by a larger boa-constrictor, and i saved his life by catching hold of his tail and pulling him out just as the other was getting ready to give the last gulp which would have taken wriggletto in completely, and placed him beyond all hope of ever being saved." "what was the other boa doing while you were saving wriggletto?" asked diavolo, who was fond always of hearing both sides to every question, and whose father, therefore, hoped he might some day grow up to be a great judge, or at least serve with distinction upon a jury. "he couldn't do anything," returned mr. munchausen. "he was powerless as long as wriggletto's head stuck in his throat and just before i got the smaller snake extracted i killed the other one by cutting off his tail behind his ears. it was not a very dangerous rescue on my part as long as wriggletto was likely to be grateful. i must confess for a minute i was afraid he might not comprehend all i had done for him, and it was just possible he might attack me, but the hug he gave me when he found himself free once more was reassuring. he wound himself gracefully around my body, squeezed me gently and then slid off into the road again, as much as to say 'thank you, sir. you're a brick.' after that there was nothing wriggletto would not do for me. he followed me everywhere i went from that time on. he seemed to learn all in an instant that there were hundreds of little things to be done about the house of an old bachelor like myself which a willing serpent could do, and he made it his business to do those things: like picking up my collars from the floor, and finding my studs for me when they rolled under the bureau, and a thousand and one other little services of a like nature, and when you, master diavolo, try in future to say that snakes are only good to kill and are of no use to any one, you must at least make an exception in favour of wriggletto." "i will," said diavolo, "but you haven't told us of the other useful things he did for you yet." "i was about to do so," said mr. munchausen. "in the first place, before he learned how to do little things about the house for me, wriggletto acted as a watch-dog and you may be sure that nobody ever ventured to prowl around my house at night while wriggletto slept out on the lawn. para was quite full of conscienceless fellows, too, at that time, any one of whom would have been glad to have a chance to relieve me of my belongings if they could get by my watch-snake. two of them tried it one dark stormy night, and wriggletto when he discovered them climbing in at my window, crawled up behind them and winding his tail about them crept down to the banks of the amazon, dragging them after him. there he tossed them into the river, and came back to his post once more." "did you see him do it, uncle munch?" asked angelica. "no, i did not. i learned of it afterwards. wriggletto himself said never a word. he was too modest for that," said mr. munchausen. "one of the robbers wrote a letter to the para newspapers about it, complaining that any one should be allowed to keep a reptile like that around, and suggested that anyhow people using snakes in place of dogs should be compelled to license them, and put up a sign at their gates: beware of the snake! "the man never acknowledged, of course, that he was the robber,--said that he was calling on business when the thing happened,--but he didn't say what his business was, but i knew better, and later on the other robber and he fell out, and they confessed that the business they had come on was to take away a few thousand gold coins of the realm which i was known to have in the house locked in a steel chest. "i bought wriggletto a handsome silver collar after that, and it was generally understood that he was the guardian of my place, and robbers bothered me no more. then he was finer than a cat for rats. on very hot days he would go off into the cellar, where it was cool, and lie there with his mouth wide open and his eyes shut, and catch rats by the dozens. they'd run around in the dark, and the first thing they'd know they'd stumble into wriggletto's mouth; and he swallowed them and licked his chops afterwards, just as you or i do when we've swallowed a fine luscious oyster or a clam. "but pleasantest of all the things wriggletto did for me--and he was untiring in his attentions in that way--was keeping me cool on hot summer nights. para as you may have heard is a pretty hot place at best, lying in a tropical region as it does, but sometimes it is awful for a man used to the northern climate, as i was. the act of fanning one's self, so far from cooling one off, makes one hotter than ever. maybe you remember how it was with the elephant in the poem: "'oh my, oh dear!' the elephant said, 'it is so awful hot! i've fanned myself for seventy weeks, and haven't cooled a jot.' "and that was the way it was with me in para on hot nights. i'd fan and fan and fan, but i couldn't get cool until wriggletto became a member of my family, and then i was all right. he used to wind his tail about a huge palm-leaf fan i had cut in the forest, so large that i couldn't possibly handle it myself, and he'd wave it to and fro by the hour, with the result that my house was always the breeziest place in para." "where is wriggletto now?" asked diavolo. "heigho!" sighed mr. munchausen. "he died, poor fellow, and all because of that silver collar i gave him. he tried to swallow a jibola that entered my house one night on wickedness intent, and while wriggletto's throat was large enough when he stretched it to take down three jibolas, with a collar on which wouldn't stretch he couldn't swallow one. he didn't know that, unfortunately, and he kept on trying until the jibola got a quarter way down and then he stuck. each swallow, of course, made the collar fit more tightly and finally poor wriggletto choked himself to death. i felt so badly about it that i left para within a month, but meanwhile i had a suit of clothes made out of wriggletto's skin, and wore it for years, and then, when the clothes began to look worn, i had the skin re-tanned and made over into shoes and slippers. so you see that even after death he was useful to me. he was a faithful snake, and that is why when i hear people running down all snakes i tell the story of wriggletto." [illustration: "he used to wind his tail about a fan and he'd wave it to and fro by the hour." _chapter xiii._] there was a pause for a few moments, when diavolo said, "uncle munch, is that a true story you've been giving us?" "true?" cried mr. munchausen. "true? why, my dear boy, what a question! if you don't believe it, bring me your atlas, and i'll show you just where para is." diavolo did as he was told, and sure enough, mr. munchausen did exactly as he said he would, which diavolo thought was very remarkable, but he still was not satisfied. "you said he could write as well with himself as you or i could with a pen, uncle munch," he said. "how was that?" "why that was simple enough," explained mr. munchausen. "you see he was very black, and thirty-nine feet long and remarkably supple and slender. after a year of hard study he learned to bunch himself into letters, and if he wanted to say anything to me he'd simply form himself into a written sentence. indeed his favourite attitude when in repose showed his wonderful gift in chirography as well as his affection for me. if you will get me a card i will prove it." diavolo brought mr. munchausen the card and upon it he drew the following: [illustration: a snake in the form of 'unclemunch'] "there," said mr. munchausen. "that's the way wriggletto always used to lie when he was at rest. his love for me was very affecting." xiv the poetic june-bug, together with some remarks on the gillyhooly bird "uncle munch," said diavolo one afternoon as a couple of bicyclers sped past the house at breakneck speed, "which would you rather have, a bicycle or a horse?" "well, i must say, my boy, that is a difficult question to answer," mr. munchausen replied after scratching his head dubiously for a few minutes. "you might as well ask a man which he prefers, a hammock or a steam-yacht. to that question i should reply that if i wanted to sell it, i'd rather have a steam-yacht, but for a pleasant swing on a cool piazza in midsummer or under the apple-trees, a hammock would be far preferable. steam-yachts are not much good to swing in under an apple tree, and very few piazzas that i know of are big enough--" "oh, now, you know what i mean, uncle munch," diavolo retorted, tapping mr. munchausen upon the end of his nose, for a twinkle in mr. munchausen's eye seemed to indicate that he was in one of his chaffing moods, and a greater tease than mr. munchausen when he felt that way no one has ever known. "i mean for horse-back riding, which would you rather have?" "ah, that's another matter," returned mr. munchausen, calmly. "now i know how to answer your question. for horse-back riding i certainly prefer a horse; though, on the other hand, for bicycling, bicycles are better than horses. horses make very poor bicycles, due no doubt to the fact that they have no wheels." diavolo began to grow desperate. "of course," mr. munchausen went on, "all i have to say in this connection is based merely on my ideas, and not upon any personal experience. i've been horse-back riding on horses, and bicycling on bicycles, but i never went horse-back riding on a bicycle, or bicycling on horseback. i should think it might be exciting to go bicycling on horse-back, but very dangerous. it is hard enough for me to keep a bicycle from toppling over when i'm riding on a hard, straight, level well-paved road, without experimenting with my wheel on a horse's back. however if you wish to try it some day and will get me a horse with a back as big as trafalgar square i'm willing to make the effort." angelica giggled. it was lots of fun for her when mr. munchausen teased diavolo, though she didn't like it quite so much when it was her turn to be treated that way. diavolo wanted to laugh too, but he had too much dignity for that, and to conceal his desire to grin from mr. munchausen he began to hunt about for an old newspaper, or a lump of coal or something else he could make a ball of to throw at him. "which would you rather do, angelica," mr. munchausen resumed, "go to sea in a balloon or attend a dumb-crambo party in a chicken-coop?" "i guess i would," laughed angelica. "that's a good answer," mr. munchausen put in. "it is quite as intelligent as the one which is attributed to the gillyhooly bird. when the gillyhooly bird was asked his opinion of giraffes, he scratched his head for a minute and said, "'the question hath but little wit that you have put to me, but i will try to answer it with prompt candidity. the automobile is a thing that's pleasing to the mind; and in a lustrous diamond ring some merit i can find. some persons gloat o'er french chateaux; some dote on lemon ice; while others gorge on mixed gateaux, yet have no use for mice. i'm very fond of oyster-stew, i love a patent-leather boot, but after all, 'twixt me and you, the fish-ball is my favourite fruit.'" "hoh" jeered diavolo, who, attracted by the allusion to a kind of bird of which he had never heard before, had given up the quest for a paper ball and returned to mr. munchausen's side, "i don't think that was a very intelligent answer. it didn't answer the question at all." "that's true, and that is why it was intelligent," said mr. munchausen. "it was noncommittal. some day when you are older and know less than you do now, you will realise, my dear diavolo, how valuable a thing is the reply that answereth not." mr. munchausen paused long enough to let the lesson sink in and then he resumed. "the gillyhooly bird is a perfect owl for wisdom of that sort," he said. "it never lets anybody know what it thinks; it never makes promises, and rarely speaks except to mystify people. it probably has just as decided an opinion concerning giraffes as you or i have, but it never lets anybody into the secret." "what is a gillyhooly bird, anyhow?" asked diavolo. "he's a bird that never sings for fear of straining his voice; never flies for fear of wearying his wings; never eats for fear of spoiling his digestion; never stands up for fear of bandying his legs and never lies down for fear of injuring his spine," said mr. munchausen. "he has no feathers, because, as he says, if he had, people would pull them out to trim hats with, which would be painful, and he never goes into debt because, as he observes himself, he has no hope of paying the bill with which nature has endowed him, so why run up others?" "i shouldn't think he'd live long if he doesn't eat?" suggested angelica. "that's the great trouble," said mr. munchausen. "he doesn't live long. nothing so ineffably wise as the gillyhooly bird ever does live long. i don't believe a gillyhooly bird ever lived more than a day, and that, connected with the fact that he is very ugly and keeps himself out of sight, is possibly why no one has ever seen one. he is known only by hearsay, and as a matter of fact, besides ourselves, i doubt if any one has ever heard of him." diavolo eyed mr. munchausen narrowly. "speaking of gillyhooly birds, however, and to be serious for a moment," mr. munchausen continued flinching nervously under diavolo's unyielding gaze; "i never told you about the poetic june-bug that worked the typewriter, did i?" "never heard of such a thing," cried diavolo. "the idea of a june-bug working a typewriter." "i don't believe it," said angelica, "he hasn't got any fingers." "that shows all you know about it," retorted mr. munchausen. "you think because you are half-way right you are all right. however, if you don't want to hear the story of the june-bug that worked the type-writer, i won't tell it. my tongue is tired, anyhow." "please go on," said diavolo. "i want to hear it." "so do i," said angelica. "there are lots of stories i don't believe that i like to hear--'jack the giant-killer' and 'cinderella,' for instance." "very well," said mr. munchausen. "i'll tell it, and you can believe it or not, as you please. it was only two summers ago that the thing happened, and i think it was very curious. as you may know, i often have a great lot of writing to do and sometimes i get very tired holding a pen in my hand. when you get old enough to write real long letters you'll know what i mean. your writing hand will get so tired that sometimes you'll wish some wizard would come along smart enough to invent a machine by means of which everything you think can be transferred to paper as you think it, without the necessity of writing. but as yet the only relief to the man whose hand is worn out by the amount of writing he has to do is the use of the type-writer, which is hard only on the fingers. so to help me in my work two summers ago i bought a type-writing machine, and put it in the great bay-window of my room at the hotel where i was stopping. it was a magnificent hotel, but it had one drawback--it was infested with june-bugs. most summer hotels are afflicted with mosquitoes, but this one had june-bugs instead, and all night long they'd buzz and butt their heads against the walls until the guests went almost crazy with the noise. "at first i did not mind it very much. it was amusing to watch them, and my friends and i used to play a sort of game of chance with them that entertained us hugely. we marked the walls off in squares which we numbered and then made little wagers as to which of the squares a specially selected june-bug would whack next. to simplify the game we caught the chosen june-bug and put some powdered charcoal on his head, so that when he butted up against the white wall he would leave a black mark in the space he hit. it was really one of the most exciting games of that particular kind that i ever played, and many a rainy day was made pleasant by this diversion. "but after awhile like everything else june-bug roulette as we called it began to pall and i grew tired of it and wished there never had been such a thing as a june-bug in the world. i did my best to forget them, but it was impossible. their buzzing and butting continued uninterrupted, and toward the end of the month they developed a particularly bad habit of butting the electric call button at the side of my bed. the consequence was that at all hours of the night, hall-boys with iced-water, and house-maids with bath towels, and porters with kindling-wood would come knocking at my door and routing me out of bed--summoned of course by none other than those horrible butting insects. this particular nuisance became so unendurable that i had to change my room for one which had no electric bell in it. "so things went, until june passed and july appeared. the majority of the nuisances promptly got out but one especially vigorous and athletic member of the tribe remained. he became unbearable and finally one night i jumped out of bed either to kill him or to drive him out of my apartment forever, but he wouldn't go, and try as i might i couldn't hit him hard enough to kill him. in sheer desperation i took the cover of my typewriting machine and tried to catch him in that. finally i succeeded, and, as i thought, shook the heedless creature out of the window promptly slamming the window shut so that he might not return; and then putting the type-writer cover back over the machine, i went to bed again, but not to sleep as i had hoped. all night long every second or two i'd hear the type-writer click. this i attributed to nervousness on my part. as far as i knew there wasn't anything to make the type-writer click, and the fact that i heard it do so served only to convince me that i was tired and imagined that i heard noises. [illustration: "most singular of all was the fact that consciously or unconsciously the insect had butted out a verse." _chapter xiv._] "the next morning, however, on opening the machine i found that the june-bug had not only not been shaken out of the window, but had actually spent the night inside of the cover, butting his head against the keys, having no wall to butt with it, and most singular of all was the fact that, consciously or unconsciously, the insect had butted out a verse which read: "'i'm glad i haven't any brains, for there can be no doubt i'd have to give up butting if i had, or butt them out.'" "mercy! really?" cried angelica. "well i can't prove it," said mr. munchausen, "by producing the june-bug, but i can show you the hotel, i can tell you the number of the room; i can show you the type-writing machine, and i have recited the verse. if you're not satisfied with that i'll have to stand your suspicions." "what became of the june-bug?" demanded diavolo. "he flew off as soon as i lifted the top of the machine," said mr. munchausen. "he had all the modesty of a true poet and did not wish to be around while his poem was being read." "it's queer how you can't get rid of june-bugs, isn't it, uncle munch," suggested angelica. "oh, we got rid of 'em next season all right," said mr. munchausen. "i invented a scheme that kept them away all the following summer. i got the landlord to hang calendars all over the house with one full page for each month. then in every room we exposed the page for may and left it that way all summer. when the june-bugs arrived and saw these, they were fooled into believing that june hadn't come yet, and off they flew to wait. they are very inconsiderate of other people's comfort," mr. munchausen concluded, "but they are rigorously bound by an etiquette of their own. a self-respecting june-bug would no more appear until the june-bug season is regularly open than a gentleman of high society would go to a five o'clock tea munching fresh-roasted peanuts. and by the way, that reminds me i happen to have a bag of peanuts right here in my pocket." here mr. munchausen, transferring the luscious goobers to angelica, suddenly remembered that he had something to say to the imps' father, and hurriedly left them. "do you suppose that's true, diavolo?" whispered angelica as their friend disappeared. "well it might happen," said diavolo, "but i've a sort of notion that it's 'maginary like the gillyhooly bird. gimme a peanut." xv a lucky stroke "mr. munchausen," said ananias, as he and the famous warrior drove off from the first hole at the missing links, "you never seem to weary of the game of golf. what is its precise charm in your eyes,--the health-giving qualities of the game or its capacity for bad lies?" "i owe my life to it," replied the baron. "that is to say to my precision as a player i owe one of the many preservations of my existence which have passed into history. furthermore it is ever varying in its interest. like life itself it is full of hazards and no man knows at the beginning of his stroke what will be the requirements of the next. i never told you of the bovine lie i got once while playing a match with bonaparte, did i?" "i do not recall it," said ananias, foozling his second stroke into the stone wall. "i was playing with my friend bonaparte, for the cosmopolitan championship," said munchausen, "and we were all even at the thirty-sixth hole. bonaparte had sliced his ball into a stubble field from the tee, whereat he was inclined to swear, until by an odd mischance i drove mine into the throat of a bull that was pasturing on the fair green two hundred and ninety-eight yards distant. 'shall we take it over?' i asked. 'no,' laughed bonaparte, thinking he had me. 'we must play the game. i shall play my lie. you must play yours.' 'very well,' said i. 'so be it. golf is golf, bull or no bull.' and off we went. it took bonaparte seven strokes to get on the green again, which left me a like number to extricate my ball from the throat of the unwelcome bovine. it was a difficult business, but i made short work of it. tying my red silk handkerchief to the end of my brassey i stepped in front of the great creature and addressing an imaginary ball before him made the usual swing back and through stroke. the bull, angered by the fluttering red handkerchief, reared up and made a dash at me. i ran in the direction of the hole, the bull in pursuit for two hundred yards. here i hid behind a tree while mr. bull stopped short and snorted again. still there was no sign of the ball, and after my pursuer had quieted a little i emerged from my hiding place and with the same club and in the same manner played three. the bull surprised at my temerity threw his head back with an angry toss and tried to bellow forth his wrath, as i had designed he should, but the obstruction in his throat prevented him. the ball had stuck in his pharynx. nothing came of his spasm but a short hacking cough and a wheeze--then silence. 'i'll play four,' i cried to bonaparte, who stood watching me from a place of safety on the other side of the stone wall. again i swung my red-flagged brassey in front of the angry creature's face and what i had hoped for followed. the second attempt at a bellow again resulted in a hacking cough and a sneeze, and lo the ball flew out of his throat and landed dead to the hole. the caddies drove the bull away. bonaparte played eight, missed a putt for a nine, stymied himself in a ten, holed out in twelve and i went down in five." "jerusalem!" cried ananias. "what did bonaparte say?" [illustration: "again i swung my red-flagged brassey in front of the angry creature's face, and what i had hoped for followed." _chapter xv._] "he delivered a short, quick nervous address in corsican and retired to the club-house where he spent the afternoon drowning his sorrows in absinthe high-balls. 'great hole that, bonaparte,' said i when his geniality was about to return. 'yes,' said he. 'a regular lu-lu, eh?' said i. 'more than that, baron,' said he. 'it was a waterlooloo.' it was the first pun i ever heard the emperor make." "we all have our weak moments," said ananias drily, playing nine from behind the wall. "i give the hole up," he added angrily. "let's play it out anyhow," said munchausen, playing three to the green. "all right," ananias agreed, taking a ten and rimming the cup. munchausen took three to go down, scoring six in all. "two up," said he, as ananias putted out in eleven. "how the deuce do you make that out? this is only the first hole," cried ananias with some show of heat. "you gave up a hole, didn't you?" demanded munchausen. "yes." "and i won a hole, didn't i?" "you did--but--" "well that's two holes. fore!" cried munchausen. the two walked along in silence for a few minutes, and the baron resumed. "yes, golf is a splendid game and i love it, though i don't think i'd ever let a good canvasback duck get cold while i was talking about it. when i have a canvasback duck before me i don't think of anything else while it's there. but unquestionably i'm fond of golf, and i have a very good reason to be. it has done a great deal for me, and as i have already told you, once it really saved my life." "saved your life, eh?" said ananias. "that's what i said," returned mr. munchausen, "and so of course that is the way it was." "i should admire to hear the details," said ananias. "i presume you were going into a decline and it restored your strength and vitality." "no," said mr. munchausen, "it wasn't that way at all. it saved my life when i was attacked by a fierce and ravenously hungry lion. if i hadn't known how to play golf it would have been farewell forever to mr. munchausen, and mr. lion would have had a fine luncheon that day, at which i should have been the turkey and cranberry sauce and mince pie all rolled into one." ananias laughed. "it's easy enough to laugh at my peril now," said mr. munchausen, "but if you'd been with me you wouldn't have laughed very much. on the contrary, ananias, you'd have ruined what little voice you ever had screeching." "i wasn't laughing at the danger you were in," said ananias. "i don't see anything funny in that. what i was laughing at was the idea of a lion turning up on a golf course. they don't have lions on any of the golf courses that i am familiar with." "that may be, my dear ananias," said mr. munchausen, "but it doesn't prove anything. what you are familiar with has no especial bearing upon the ordering of the universe. they had lions by the hundreds on the particular links i refer to. i laid the links out myself and i fancy i know what i am talking about. they were in the desert of sahara. and i tell you what it is," he added, slapping his knee enthusiastically, "they were the finest links i ever played on. there wasn't a hole shorter than three miles and a quarter, which gives you plenty of elbow room, and the fair green had all the qualities of a first class billiard table, so that your ball got a magnificent roll on it." "what did you do for hazards?" asked ananias. "oh we had 'em by the dozen," replied mr. munchausen. "there weren't any ponds or stone walls, of course, but there were plenty of others that were quite as interesting. there was the sphynx for instance; and for bunkers the pyramids can't be beaten. then occasionally right in the middle of a game a caravan ten or twelve miles long, would begin to drag its interminable length across the middle of the course, and it takes mighty nice work with the lofting iron to lift a ball over a caravan without hitting a camel or killing an arab, i can tell you. then finally i'm sure i don't know of any more hazardous hazard for a golf player--or for anybody else for that matter--than a real hungry african lion out in search of breakfast, especially when you meet him on the hole furthest from home and have a stretch of three or four miles between him and assistance with no revolver or other weapon at hand. that's hazard enough for me and it took the best work i could do with my brassey to get around it." "you always were strong at a brassey lie," said ananias. "thank you," said mr. munchausen. "there are few lies i can't get around. but on this morning i was playing for the mid-african championship. i'd been getting along splendidly. my record for fifteen holes was about seven hundred and eighty-three strokes, and i was flattering myself that i was about to turn in the best card that had ever been seen in a medal play contest in all africa. my drive from the sixteenth tee was a simple beauty. i thought the ball would never stop, i hit it such a tremendous whack. it had a flight of three hundred and eighty-two yards and a roll of one hundred and twenty more, and when it finally stopped it turned up in a mighty good lie on a natural tee, which the wind had swirled up. calling to the monkey who acted as my caddy--we used monkeys for caddies always in africa, and they were a great success because they don't talk and they use their tails as a sort of extra hand,--i got out my brassey for the second stroke, took my stance on the hardened sand, swung my club back, fixed my eye on the ball and was just about to carry through, when i heard a sound which sent my heart into my boots, my caddy galloping back to the club house, and set my teeth chattering like a pair of castanets. it was unmistakable, that sound. when a hungry lion roars you know precisely what it is the moment you hear it, especially if you have heard it before. it doesn't sound a bit like the miauing of a cat; nor is it suggestive of the rumble of artillery in an adjacent street. there is no mistaking it for distant thunder, as some writers would have you believe. it has none of the gently mournful quality that characterises the soughing of the wind through the leafless branches of the autumnal forest, to which a poet might liken it; it is just a plain lion-roaring and nothing else, and when you hear it you know it. the man who mistakes it for distant thunder might just as well be struck by lightning there and then for all the chance he has to get away from it ultimately. the poet who confounds it with the gentle soughing breeze never lives to tell about it. he gets himself eaten up for his foolishness. it doesn't require a daniel come to judgment to recognise a lion's roar on sight. "i should have perished myself that morning if i had not known on the instant just what were the causes of the disturbance. my nerve did not desert me, however, frightened as i was. i stopped my play and looked out over the sand in the direction whence the roaring came, and there he stood a perfect picture of majesty, and a giant among lions, eyeing me critically as much as to say, 'well this is luck, here's breakfast fit for a king!' but he reckoned without his host. i was in no mood to be served up to stop his ravening appetite and i made up my mind at once to stay and fight. i'm a good runner, ananias, but i cannot beat a lion in a three mile sprint on a sandy soil, so fight it was. the question was how. my caddy gone, the only weapons i had with me were my brassey and that one little gutta percha ball, but thanks to my golf they were sufficient. "carefully calculating the distance at which the huge beast stood, i addressed the ball with unusual care, aiming slightly to the left to overcome my tendency to slice, and drove the ball straight through the lion's heart as he poised himself on his hind legs ready to spring upon me. it was a superb stroke and not an instant too soon, for just as the ball struck him he sprang forward, and even as it was landed but two feet away from where i stood, but, i am happy to say, dead. "it was indeed a narrow escape, and it tried my nerves to the full, but i extracted the ball and resumed my play in a short while, adding the lucky stroke to my score meanwhile. but i lost the match,--not because i lost my nerve, for this i did not do, but because i lifted from the lion's heart. the committee disqualified me because i did not play from my lie and the cup went to my competitor. however, i was satisfied to have escaped with my life. i'd rather be a live runner-up than a dead champion any day." "a wonderful experience," said ananias. "perfectly wonderful. i never heard of a stroke to equal that." "you are too modest, ananias," said mr. munchausen drily. "too modest by half. you and sapphira hold the record for that, you know." "i have forgotten the episode," said ananias. "didn't you and she make your last hole on a single stroke?" demanded munchausen with an inward chuckle. "oh--yes," said ananias grimly, as he recalled the incident. "but you know we didn't win any more than you did." "oh, didn't you?" asked munchausen. "no," replied ananias. "you forget that sapphira and i were two down at the finish." and mr. munchausen played the rest of the game in silence. ananias had at last got the best of him. * * * * * transcriber�s note: spellings were left as found. illustrations were moved when they interrupted paragraphs.