"You see," he added, returning with a tin cup, "this report is
different. When you're writing to the Big Mogul himself something gets
on your nerves. And it has been a bad year with us, Pelly. We fell
down on Scottie, and let the raiders from that whaler get away from
us. And-- By Jo, I forgot to mention the wolves!"

"Put in a P. S.," suggested Pelliter.

"A P. S. to his Royal Nibs!" cried MacVeigh, staring incredulously at
his mate. "There's no use of feeling your pulse any more, Pelly. The
fever's got you. You're sure out of your head."

He spoke cheerfully, trying to bring a smile to the other's pale face.
Pelliter dropped back with a sigh.

"No-- there isn't any use feeling my pulse," he repeated. "It isn't
sickness, Bill-- not sickness of the ordinary sort. It's in my brain--
that's where it is. Think of it-- nine months up here, and never a
glimpse of a white man's face except yours. Nine months without the
sound of a woman's voice. Nine months of just that dead, gray world
out there, with the northern lights hissing at us every night like
snakes and the black rocks staring at us as they've stared for a
million centuries. There may be glory in it, but that's all. We're
'eroes all right, but there's no one knows it but ourselves and the
six hundred and forty-nine other men of the Royal Mounted. My God,
what I'd give for the sight of a girl's face, for just a moment's
touch of her hand! It would drive out this fever, for it's the fever
of loneliness, Mac-- a sort of madness, and it's splitting my 'ead."

"Tush, tush!" said MacVeigh, taking his mate's hand. "Wake up, Pelly!