started, high up on the pile of freight--Pee-lat lying beside the big
box, and a white-haired brute belonging to one of the Indians. The fight
wasn't explosive at all. The brutes just snarled at each other from a
distance--tapping at each other long-distance, you know, saying dast and
dassent, dast and dassent. The noise was rather disturbing, but you
could hear the missionary's voice above it.

"There was no particularly easy way of getting at the two dogs, except
from the other side of the pile. But nobody was on that side--everybody
watching the ceremony, you see. Even then everything might have been all
right if the captain hadn't thrown a club at the dogs. That was what
precipitated everything. As I say, if the captain hadn't thrown that
club, nothing might have happened.

"The missionary had just reached the point where he was saying 'In
sickness and in health,' and 'Till death us do part.' And just then the
captain threw the club. I saw the whole thing. It landed on Pee-lat,
and at that instant the white brute jumped him. The club caused it.
Their two bodies struck the box, and it began to slide, its lower end
tilting down. It was a long oblong box, and it slid down slowly until it
reached the perpendicular, when it came down on the run. The onlookers
on that side the circle had time to get out from under. Flush of Gold
and the Count, on the opposite side of the circle, were facing the box;
the missionary had his back to it. The box must have fallen ten feet
straight up and down, and it hit end on.

"Now mind you, not one of us knew that Dave Walsh was dead. We thought
he was on the _Glendale_, bound for Dawson. The missionary had edged off
to one side, and so Flush of Gold faced the box when it struck. It was
like in a play. It couldn't have been better planned. It struck on end,