"And I'm sure going to win, and sixty days is a long time between
drinks, so I pay now. Name your brand, you hoochinoos! Name
your brand!"

Bettles, a glass of whiskey in hand, climbed back on his chair,
and swaying back and forth, sang the one song he knew:--

"O, it's Henry Ward Beecher
And Sunday-school teachers
All sing of the sassafras-root;
But you bet all the same,
If it had its right name
It's the juice of the forbidden fruit."

The crowd roared out the chorus:--

"But you bet all the same
If it had its right name
It's the juice of the forbidden fruit."

Somebody opened the outer door. A vague gray light filtered in.

"Burning daylight, burning daylight," some one called warningly.

Daylight paused for nothing, heading for the door and pulling
down his ear-flaps. Kama stood outside by the sled, a long,
narrow affair, sixteen inches wide and seven and a half feet in
length, its slatted bottom raised six inches above the steel-shod
runners. On it, lashed with thongs of moose-hide, were the light