"Another one?" Thurston got up to scratch a trench in the
half-inch layer of frost on the cabin window. "Why, it only
cleared up this morning after three days of it."

"Can't help that. This is just another chapter uh that same
story. When these here Klondike Chinooks gets to lapping over
each other they never know when to quit. Every darn one has got
to be continued tacked onto the tail of it the winter. All the
difference is, you can't read the writing; but I can."

"I've got some mail for yuh, Bud. And old Hank wanted me to ask
yuh if you'd like to go to Glasgow next Thursday and watch old
Lauman start the Wagner boys for wherever's hot enough. He can
get yuh in, you being in the writing business. He says to tell
yuh it's a good chance to take notes, so yuh can write a real
stylish story, with lots uh murder and sudden death in it. We
don't hang folks out here very often, and yuh might have to go
back East after pointers, if yuh pass this up."

"Oh, go easy. It turns me sick when I think about it; how they
looked when they got their sentence, and all that. I certainly
don't care to see them hanged, though they do deserve it. Where
are the letters?" Thurston sprawled across the table for them.
One was from Reeve-Howard; he put it by. Another had a printed
address in the corner--an address that started his pulse a beat
or two faster; for he had not yet reached that blase stage where
he could receive a personal letter from one of the "Eight
Leading" without the flicker of an eye-lash. He still gloated
over his successes, and was cast into the deeps by his failures.