A Day's Lodging

by Jack London

It was the gosh-dangdest stampede I ever seen. A thousand dog-teams hittin' the ice. You couldn't see 'm fer smoke. Two whitemen an' a Swede froze to death that night, an' there was a dozenbusted their lungs. But didn't I see with my own eyes the bottomof 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 madethe stampede. An' then there was nothin' to it. That's what Isaid - 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 andheld the sled in the trail. With the other mittened hand he rubbedhis cheeks and nose. He rubbed his cheeks and nose every littlewhile. In point of fact, he rarely ceased from rubbing them, andsometimes, as their numbness increased, he rubbed fiercely. Hisforehead was covered by the visor of his fur cap, the flaps ofwhich went over his ears. The rest of his face was protected by athick beard, golden-brown under its coating of frost.Behind him churned a heavily loaded Yukon sled, and before himtoiled a string of five dogs. The rope by which they dragged thesled rubbed against the side of Messner's leg. When the dogs swungon a bend in the trail, he stepped over the rope. There were manybends, and he was compelled to step over it often. Sometimes hetripped on the rope, or stumbled, and at all times he was awkward,betraying a weariness so great that the sled now and again ran uponhis heels.When he came to a straight piece of trail, where the sled could getalong for a moment without guidance, he let go the gee-pole andbatted his right hand sharply upon the hard wood. He found itdifficult to keep up the circulation in that hand. But while hepounded the one hand, he never ceased from rubbing his nose andcheeks with the other."It's too cold to travel, anyway," he said. He spoke aloud, afterthe manner of men who are much by themselves. "Only a fool wouldtravel at such a temperature. If it isn't eighty below, it'sbecause it's seventy-nine."He pulled out his watch, and after some fumbling got it back intothe breast pocket of his thick woollen jacket. Then he surveyedthe 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 therehad 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 ina wild panic over his right hand, and proceeded to hammer itfuriously against the gee-pole."You - poor - devils!" he addressed the dogs, which had droppeddown heavily on the ice to rest. His was a broken, jerkyutterance, caused by the violence with which he hammered his numbhand upon the wood. "What have you done anyway that a two-leggedother animal should come along, break you to harness, curb all yournatural proclivities, and make slave-beasts out of you?"He rubbed his nose, not reflectively, but savagely, in order todrive the blood into it, and urged the dogs to their work again.He travelled on the frozen surface of a great river. Behind him itstretched away in a mighty curve of many miles, losing itself in afantastic jumble of mountains, snow-covered and silent. Ahead ofhim the river split into many channels to accommodate the freightof islands it carried on its breast. These islands were silent andwhite. No animals nor humming insects broke the silence. No birdsflew in the chill air. There was no sound of man, no mark of thehandiwork of man. The world slept, and it was like the sleep ofdeath.John Messner seemed succumbing to the apathy of it all. The frostwas benumbing his spirit. He plodded on with bowed head,unobservant, mechanically rubbing nose and cheeks, and batting hissteering hand against the gee-pole in the straight trail-stretches.But the dogs were observant, and suddenly they stopped, turningtheir heads and looking back at their master out of eyes that werewistful and questioning. Their eyelashes were frosted white, aswere their muzzles, and they had all the seeming of decrepit oldage, what of the frost-rime and exhaustion.The man was about to urge them on, when he checked himself, rousedup with an effort, and looked around. The dogs had stopped besidea water-hole, not a fissure, but a hole man-made, choppedlaboriously with an axe through three and a half feet of ice. Athick skin of new ice showed that it had not been used for sometime. Messner glanced about him. The dogs were already pointingthe way, each wistful and hoary muzzle turned toward the dim snow-path that left the main river trail and climbed the bank of theisland."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 aroundhis shoulders. Then he GEE'D the dogs to the right and put them atthe bank on the run. It was a stiff pull, but their weariness fellfrom them as they crouched low to the snow, whining with eagernessand gladness as they struggled upward to the last ounce of effortin their bodies. When a dog slipped or faltered, the one behindnipped his hind quarters. The man shouted encouragement andthreats, and threw all his weight on the hauling-rope.They cleared the bank with a rush, swung to the left, and dashed upto 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 wayfarerhad left a supply of firewood. Messner set up his light sheet-ironstove and starred a fire. He put five sun-cured salmon into theoven to thaw out for the dogs, and from the water-hole filled hiscoffee-pot and cooking-pail.While waiting for the water to boil, he held his face over thestove. The moisture from his breath had collected on his beard andfrozen 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 abouthim in steam. He helped the process with his fingers, workingloose 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 thesound of voices. A knock came on the door. "Come in," Messner called, in a voice muffled because at themoment he was sucking loose a fragment of ice from its anchorage onhis upper lip.The door opened, and, gazing out of his cloud of steam, he saw aman 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 theirpersonal appearance. The nose and cheek strap worn by the womanand the trail-wrappings about her head allowed only a pair of blackeyes to be seen. The man was dark-eyed and smooth-shaven allexcept 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 ofthe room. "We thought this cabin was empty.""It isn't my cabin," Messner answered. "I just found it a fewminutes ago. Come right in and camp. Plenty of room, and youwon't need your stove. There's room for all."At the sound of his voice the woman peered at him with quickcuriousness."Get your things off," her companion said to her. "I'll unhitchand get the water so we can start cooking."Messner took the thawed salmon outside and fed his dogs. He had toguard them against the second team of dogs, and when he hadre-entered the cabin the other man had unpacked the sled and fetchedwater. Messner's pot was boiling. He threw in the coffee, settledit 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 timeheating a pot of beans he had boiled the night before and that hadridden frozen on the sled all morning.Removing his utensils from the stove, so as to give the newcomers achance to cook, he proceeded to take his meal from the top of hisgrub-box, himself sitting on his bed-roll. Between mouthfuls hetalked trail and dogs with the man, who, with head over the stove,was thawing the ice from his mustache. There were two bunks in thecabin, and into one of them, when he had cleared his lip, thestranger tossed his bed-roll."We'll sleep here," he said, "unless you prefer this bunk. You'rethe first comer and you have first choice, you know.""That's all right," Messner answered. "One bunk's just as good asthe other."He spread his own bedding in the second bunk, and sat down on theedge. The stranger thrust a physician's small travelling caseunder 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 theKlondike to practise."The woman busied herself with cooking, while the man sliced baconand fired the stove. The light in the cabin was dim, filteringthrough in a small window made of onion-skin writing paper andoiled with bacon grease, so that John Messner could not make outvery well what the woman looked like. Not that he tried. Heseemed to have no interest in her. But she glanced curiously fromtime 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 likeabout it is the struggle, the endeavor with one's own hands, theprimitiveness 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 spiritthermometer on the sled.""That's one hundred and six below freezing point - too cold fortravelling, eh?""Practically suicide," was the doctor's verdict. "One exertshimself. He breathes heavily, taking into his lungs the frostitself. It chills his lungs, freezes the edges of the tissues. Hegets a dry, hacking cough as the dead tissue sloughs away, and diesthe following summer of pneumonia, wondering what it's all about.I'll stay in this cabin for a week, unless the thermometer rises atleast to fifty below.""I say, Tess," he said, the next moment, "don't you think thatcoffee's boiled long enough!"At the sound of the woman's name, John Messner became suddenlyalert. He looked at her quickly, while across his face shot ahaunting expression, the ghost of some buried misery achievingswift resurrection. But the next moment, and by an effort of will,the ghost was laid again. His face was as placid as before, thoughhe was still alert, dissatisfied with what the feeble light hadshown 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 onthe edge of the bunk and incuriously studying the toes of hismoccasins. But, as she turned casually to go about her cooking, heshot another swift look at her, and she, glancing as swiftly back,caught his look. He shifted on past her to the doctor, though theslightest smile curled his lip in appreciation of the way she hadtrapped him.She drew a candle from the grub-box and lighted it. One look ather illuminated face was enough for Messner. In the small cabinthe widest limit was only a matter of several steps, and the nextmoment she was alongside of him. She deliberately held the candleclose to his face and stared at him out of eyes wide with fear andrecognition. 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-bagon the bunk.They served their meal on their grub-box, sitting on Messner'sgrub-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 itwas 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 twoyears, 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 '86.""I meant faculty," the doctor explained. "You remind me of thetype.""Sorry to hear you say so," Messner smiled back. "I'd prefer beingtaken for a prospector or a dog-musher.""I don't think he looks any more like a professor than you do adoctor," the woman broke in."Thank you," said Messner. Then, turning to her companion, "By theway, Doctor, what is your name, if I may ask?""Haythorne, if you'll take my word for it. I gave up cards withcivilization.""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 openedto form the question when Messner cut him off."Come to think of it, Doctor, you may possibly be able to satisfymy curiosity. There was a sort of scandal in faculty circles sometwo or three years ago. The wife of one of the English professors- er, if you will pardon me, Mrs. Haythorne - disappeared with someSan Francisco doctor, I understood, though his name does not justnow come to my lips. Do you remember the incident?"Haythorne nodded his head. "Made quite a stir at the time. Hisname was Womble - Graham Womble. He had a magnificent practice. Iknew him somewhat.""Well, what I was trying to get at was what had become of them. Iwas wondering if you had heard. They left no trace, hide norhair.""He covered his tracks cunningly." Haythorne cleared his throat."There was rumor that they went to the South Seas - were lost on atrading 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 inamazing contrast to the anger that blazed in the face she turnedaside so that Haythorne might not see.The latter was again on the verge of asking his name, when Messnerremarked:"This Dr. Womble, I've heard he was very handsome, and - er - quitea 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. Itwas generally accepted in Berkeley that she made life - er - notexactly paradise for her husband.""I never heard that," Haythorne rejoined. "In San Francisco thetalk was all the other way.""Woman sort of a martyr, eh? - crucified on the cross ofmatrimony?"The doctor nodded. Messner's gray eyes were mildly curious as hewent on:"That was to be expected - two sides to the shield. Living inBerkeley I only got the one side. She was a great deal in SanFrancisco, it seems.""Some coffee, please," Haythorne said.The woman refilled his mug, at the same time breaking into lightlaughter."You're gossiping like a pair of beldames," she chided them."It's so interesting," Messner smiled at her, then returned to thedoctor. "The husband seems then to have had a not very savoryreputation in San Francisco?""On the contrary, he was a moral prig," Haythorne blurted out, withapparently undue warmth. "He was a little scholastic shrimpwithout a drop of red blood in his body.""Did you know him?""Never laid eyes on him. I never knocked about in universitycircles.""One side of the shield again," Messner said, with an air ofweighing the matter judicially. While he did not amount to much,it is true - that is, physically - I'd hardly say he was as bad asall that. He did take an active interest in student athletics.And he had some talent. He once wrote a Nativity play that broughthim quite a bit of local appreciation. I have heard, also, that hewas slated for the head of the English department, only the affairhappened and he resigned and went away. It quite broke his career,or so it seemed. At any rate, on our side the shield, it wasconsidered a knock-out blow to him. It was thought he cared agreat deal for his wife."Haythorne, finishing his mug of coffee, grunted uninterestedly andlighted his pipe."It was fortunate they had no children," Messner continued.But Haythorne, with a glance at the stove, pulled on his cap andmittens."I'm going out to get some wood," he said. "Then I can take off mymoccasins 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 saton 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 Iought to do? Nothing scenic, I hope. You see I am stiff andtrail-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 saidgently, almost pleadingly. "It would be most distressing, and, Iassure 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 doanything.""You would stay here?"He nodded.She glanced desperately around the cabin and at the bed unrolled onthe other bunk. "Night is coming on. You can't stop here. Youcan't! I tell you, you simply can't!""Of course I can. I might remind you that I found this cabin firstand that you are my guests."Again her eyes travelled around the room, and the terror in themleaped 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 yourlungs. Besides, he is a physician and knows. He would neverpermit 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 theprofundity of pity and patience with which he contrived to suffuseit."My dear Theresa, as I told you before, I don't know. I reallyhaven't thought about it.""Oh! You drive me mad!" She sprang to her feet, wringing herhands 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. Ifeel you have something terrible planned all the while. Butwhatever you do, don't do anything rash. Don't get excited - ""I don't get excited any more," he interrupted. "Not since youwent away.""You have improved - remarkably," she retorted.He smiled acknowledgment. "While I am thinking about what I shalldo, 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 - mayI say, sociable?""Why have you followed me into this frightful country?" she askedirrelevantly."Don't think I came here looking for you, Theresa. Your vanityshall not be tickled by any such misapprehension. Our meeting iswholly fortuitous. I broke with the life academic and I had to gosomewhere. To be honest, I came into the Klondike because Ithought it the place you were least liable to be in."There was a fumbling at the latch, then the door swung in andHaythorne entered with an armful of firewood. At the firstwarning, 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'tthink I'm afraid.""I never knew you to be afraid, very much, of anything.""And I'm not afraid of confession, either," she said, withsoftening 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 neverdid like epigrammatic discussion. Besides, I'm not afraid to askyou 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 ofspring, it dawned upon me that I was happy, very happy. It was amost 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 ofthe first things I attend to."She came over to his side, resting her hand on his arm. "You don'twant me, John?" Her voice was soft and caressing, her hand restedlike a lure. "If I told you I had made a mistake? If I told youthat I was very unhappy? - and I am. And I did make a mistake."Fear began to grow on Messner. He felt himself wilting under thelightly laid hand. The situation was slipping away from him, allhis beautiful calmness was going. She looked at him with meltingeyes, and he, too, seemed all dew and melting. He felt himself onthe edge of an abyss, powerless to withstand the force that wasdrawing 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, heseemed to hear, rippling softly, the song of the Lorelei. It wasas though, somewhere, a piano were playing and the actual noteswere impinging on his ear-drums.Suddenly he sprang to his feet, thrust her from him as her armsattempted to clasp him, and retreated backward to the door. He wasin a panic."I'll do something desperate!" he cried."I warned you not to get excited." She laughed mockingly, and wentabout washing the dishes. "Nobody wants you. I was just playingwith you. I am happier where I am."But Messner did not believe. He remembered her facility inchanging front. She had changed front now. It was exploitation byindirection. She was not happy with the other man. She haddiscovered her mistake. The flame of his ego flared up at thethought. She wanted to come back to him, which was the one thinghe 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, atthe same time pulling on his mittens. "I'm only going to get somewater."He gathered the empty pails and cooking pots together and openedthe 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 thehour, and filled his pails. But he did not return immediately tothe cabin. Leaving the pails standing in the trail, he walked upand down, rapidly, to keep from freezing, for the frost bit intothe flesh like fire. His beard was white with his frozen breathwhen the perplexed and frowning brows relaxed and decision cameinto 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 pickedthem up and made for the cabin.When he entered he found the other man waiting, standing near thestove, 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, feelingfor the other the hatred one is prone to feel for one he haswronged."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 upand down."I know how you must feel about me," Womble began."Don't mention it," Messner broke in with exaggerated cordiality ofvoice and manner. "Never mind that. What I want to know is how doyou find her? Up to expectations? Has she worn well? Life beenall 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 saidsharply. "What we want to know is what are you going to do?"Messner made a well-feigned gesture of helplessness. "I reallydon't know. It is one of those impossible situations against whichthere 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 threebodies cannot occupy the same space at the same time, one must getout.""And you're that one," Womble announced grimly. "It's a ten-milepull 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 thiscabin first.""But Tess can't get out," Womble explained. "Her lungs are alreadyslightly chilled.""I agree with you. She can't venture ten miles of frost. By allmeans she must remain.""Then it is as I said," Womble announced with finality.Messner cleared his throat. "Your lungs are all right, aren'tthey?""Yes, but what of it?"Again the other cleared his throat and spoke with painstaking andjudicial slowness. "Why, I may say, nothing of it, except, ah,according to your own reasoning, there is nothing to prevent yourgetting out, hitting the frost, so to speak, for a matter of tenmiles. You can make it all right."Womble looked with quick suspicion at Theresa and caught in hereyes a glint of pleased surprise."Well?" he demanded of her.She hesitated, and a surge of anger darkened his face. He turnedupon Messner."Enough of this. You can't stop here.""Yes, I can.""I won't let you." Womble squared his shoulders. "I'm runningthings.""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 twofists."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, andall 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 intothe dry, hacking cough, and with blood-suffused face and one handclenched 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 theexposure. She can't travel till the temperature rises. And I'mnot 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 himin vileness, had the other sunk himself."You've got a fat sack of dust," Messner went on. "I saw youunload it from the sled.""How much do you want?" Womble demanded, with a contempt in hisvoice equal to that in his face."I made an estimate of the sack, and I - ah - should say it weighedabout 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 worthit. 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 littleworm!""Now, there you err," was the smiling rejoinder. "As a matter ofethics isn't the man who gives a bribe as bad as the man who takesa bribe? The receiver is as bad as the thief, you know; and youneedn't console yourself with any fictitious moral superiorityconcerning this little deal.""To hell with your ethics!" the other burst out. "Come here andwatch 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 thescales erected on the grub-box. The scales were small, makingnecessary many weighings, and Messner with precise care verifiedeach weighing."There's too much silver in it," he remarked as he tied up thegold-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 itspreciousness 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 thecomplaining dogs harnessed, he returned into the cabin for hismittens."Good-by, Tess," he said, standing at the open door.She turned on him, struggling for speech but too frantic to wordthe 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 downupon it, sobbing: "You beasts! You beasts!"John Messner closed the door softly behind him, and, as he startedthe 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 thesled. He worked the sack of gold out between the lashings andcarried it to the water-hole. Already a new skin of ice hadformed. This he broke with his fist. Untying the knotted mouthwith his teeth, he emptied the contents of the sack into the water.The river was shallow at that point, and two feet beneath thesurface 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 hisright band and with his left rubbing cheeks and nose, he stumbledover the rope as the dogs swung on a bend."Mush-on, you poor, sore-footed brutes!" he cried. "That's it,mush-on!"

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