FLUSH OF GOLD


Lon McFane was a bit grumpy, what of losing his tobacco pouch, or else he
might have told me, before we got to it, something about the cabin at
Surprise Lake. All day, turn and turn about, we had spelled each other
at going to the fore and breaking trail for the dogs. It was heavy
snowshoe work, and did not tend to make a man voluble, yet Lon McFane
might have found breath enough at noon, when we stopped to boil coffee,
with which to tell me. But he didn't. Surprise Lake? it was Surprise
Cabin to me. I had never heard of it before. I confess I was a bit
tired. I had been looking for Lon to stop and make camp any time for an
hour; but I had too much pride to suggest making camp or to ask him his
intentions; and yet he was my man, lured at a handsome wage to mush my
dogs for me and to obey my commands. I guess I was a bit grumpy myself.
He said nothing, and I was resolved to ask nothing, even if we tramped on
all night.

We came upon the cabin abruptly. For a week of trail we had met no one,
and, in my mind, there had been little likelihood of meeting any one for
a week to come. And yet there it was, right before my eyes, a cabin,
with a dim light in the window and smoke curling up from the chimney.

"Why didn't you tell me--" I began, but was interrupted by Lon, who
muttered--

"Surprise Lake--it lies up a small feeder half a mile on. It's only a
pond."