Churchill fought on alone, arriving at the police post at the head of
Bennett in the early afternoon. He tried to help Antonsen out of the
canoe, but failed. He listened to the exhausted man's heavy breathing,
and envied him when he thought of what he himself had yet to undergo.
Antonsen could lie there and sleep; but he, behind time, must go on over
mighty Chilcoot and down to the sea. The real struggle lay before him,
and he almost regretted the strength that resided in his frame because of
the torment it could inflict upon that frame.

Churchill pulled the canoe up on the beach, seized Bondell's grip, and
started on a limping dog-trot for the police post.

"There's a canoe down there, consigned to you from Dawson," he hurled at
the officer who answered his knock. "And there's a man in it pretty near
dead. Nothing serious; only played out. Take care of him. I've got to
rush. Good-bye. Want to catch the _Athenian_."

A mile portage connected Lake Bennett and Lake Linderman, and his last
words he flung back after him as he resumed the trot. It was a very
painful trot, but he clenched his teeth and kept on, forgetting his pain
most of the time in the fervent heat with which he regarded the gripsack.
It was a severe handicap. He swung it from one hand to the other, and
back again. He tucked it under his arm. He threw one hand over the
opposite shoulder, and the bag bumped and pounded on his back as he ran
along. He could scarcely hold it in his bruised and swollen fingers, and
several times he dropped it. Once, in changing from one hand to the
other, it escaped his clutch and fell in front of him, tripped him up,
and threw him violently to the ground.

At the far end of the portage he bought an old set of pack-straps for a