winked back. His lips pursed the monosyllable, "clothes," but Dick shook
his head reprovingly. "Here, little woman," he said, after she had drunk
the whiskey and straightened up a bit.

"Here's some dry togs. Climb into them. We're going out to extra-peg
the tent. After that, give us the call, and we'll come in and have
dinner. Sing out when you're ready."

"So help me, Dick, that's knocked the edge off her for the rest of this
trip," Tommy spluttered as they crouched to the lee of the tent.

"But it's the edge is her saving grace." Dick replied, ducking his head
to a volley of sleet that drove around a corner of the canvas. "The edge
that you and I've got, Tommy, and the edge of our mothers before us."




THE MAN WITH THE GASH


Jacob Kent had suffered from cupidity all the days of his life. This, in
turn, had engendered a chronic distrustfulness, and his mind and
character had become so warped that he was a very disagreeable man to
deal with. He was also a victim to somnambulic propensities, and very
set in his ideas. He had been a weaver of cloth from the cradle, until
the fever of Klondike had entered his blood and torn him away from his
loom. His cabin stood midway between Sixty Mile Post and the Stuart
River; and men who made it a custom to travel the trail to Dawson,
likened him to a robber baron, perched in his fortress and exacting toll