appreciate the hoppertunity of consortin' with a man o' my mug. Get
steam up in that fire-box o' your'n. I'm goin' to unrig the dogs an'
grub 'em. An' don't be shy o' the wood, my lad; there's plenty more
where that come from, and it's you've got the time to sling an axe. An'
tote up a bucket o' water while you're about it. Lively! or I'll run you
down, so 'elp me!"

Such a thing was unheard of. Jacob Kent was making the fire, chopping
wood, packing water--doing menial tasks for a guest! When Jim Cardegee
left Dawson, it was with his head filled with the iniquities of this
roadside Shylock; and all along the trail his numerous victims had added
to the sum of his crimes. Now, Jim Cardegee, with the sailor's love for
a sailor's joke, had determined, when he pulled into the cabin, to bring
its inmate down a peg or so. That he had succeeded beyond expectation he
could not help but remark, though he was in the dark as to the part the
gash on his cheek had played in it. But while he could not understand,
he saw the terror it created, and resolved to exploit it as remorselessly
as would any modern trader a choice bit of merchandise.

"Strike me blind, but you're a 'ustler," he said admiringly, his head
cocked to one side, as his host bustled about. "You never 'ort to 'ave
gone Klondiking. It's the keeper of a pub' you was laid out for. An'
it's often as I 'ave 'eard the lads up an' down the river speak o' you,
but I 'adn't no idea you was so jolly nice."

Jacob Kent experienced a tremendous yearning to try his shotgun on him,
but the fascination of the gash was too potent. This was the real Man
with the Gash, the man who had so often robbed him in the spirit. This,
then, was the embodied entity of the being whose astral form had been
projected into his dreams, the man who had so frequently harbored designs