wallowed no more. He was a child, what of the pain and the streak of
fat.

"But Passuk. While the man lay by the fire and wept, she cooked, and in
the morning helped lash the sleds, and in the evening to unlash them. And
she saved the dogs. Ever was she to the fore, lifting the webbed shoes
and making the way easy. Passuk--how shall I say?--I took it for granted
that she should do these things, and thought no more about it. For my
mind was busy with other matters, and besides, I was young in years and
knew little of woman. It was only on looking back that I came to
understand.

"And the man became worthless. The dogs had little strength in them, but
he stole rides on the sled when he lagged behind. Passuk said she would
take the one sled, so the man had nothing to do. In the morning I gave
him his fair share of grub and started him on the trail alone. Then the
woman and I broke camp, packed the sleds, and harnessed the dogs. By
midday, when the sun mocked us, we would overtake the man, with the tears
frozen on his cheeks, and pass him. In the night we made camp, set aside
his fair share of grub, and spread his furs. Also we made a big fire,
that he might see. And hours afterward he would come limping in, and eat
his grub with moans and groans, and sleep. He was not sick, this man. He
was only trail-sore and tired, and weak with hunger. But Passuk and I
were trail-sore and tired, and weak with hunger; and we did all the work
and he did none. But he had the streak of fat of which our brother
Bettles has spoken. Further, we gave the man always his fair share of
grub.

"Then one day we met two ghosts journeying through the Silence. They
were a man and a boy, and they were white. The ice had opened on Lake Le