made for white men.

'I'm a gone man, Kid. Three or four sleeps at the best. You've
got to go on. You must go on! Remember, it's my wife, it's my
boy--O God! I hope it's a boy! You can't stay by me--and I charge
you, a dying man, to pull on.'

'Give me three days,' pleaded Malemute Kid. 'You may change for
the better; something may turn up.'

'No.'

'Just three days.'

'You must pull on.'

'Two days.'

'It's my wife and my boy, Kid. You would not ask it.'

'One day.'

'No, no! I charge--'

'Only one day. We can shave it through on the grub, and I might
knock over a moose.'

'No--all right; one day, but not a minute more. And, Kid,
don't--don't leave me to face it alone. Just a shot, one pull on
the trigger. You understand. Think of it! Think of it! Flesh of