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“It ain’t possible that a ‘sour dough’ shall have the scoivy.”

“Well, he has it–has it bad but I’ll cure him. Yes, and I’ll save this whole —- camp, whether they want it or not.” Captain spoke strongly, his jaws set with determination. Klusky regarded him narrowly through close shrunk eyes, while speculation wrinkled his low forehead.

“Of course! Yes! But how shall it be, eh? Tell me that.” His eagerness was pronounced.

“I’ll go to St. Michaels and bring back fresh grub.”

“You can’t do it, boy,” said George. “It’s too far an’ there ain’t a dog in camp. You couldn’t haul your outfit alone, an’ long before you’d sledded grub back I’d be wearin’ one of them gleamin’ orioles, I believe that’s what they call it, on my head, like the pictures of them little fat angelettes. I ain’t got no ear for music, so I’ll have to cut out the harp solos.”

“Quit that talk, will you?” said Captain irritably. “Of course, one man can’t haul an outfit that far, but two can, so I’m going to take Klusky with me.” He spoke with finality, and the Jew started, gazing queerly. “We’ll go light, and drive back a herd of reindeer.”

“By thunder! I’d clean forgot the reindeer. The government was aimin’ to start a post there last fall, wasn’t it? Say! Mebbe you can make it after all, Kid.” His features brightened hopefully. “What d’ ye say, Klusky?”

The one addressed answered nervously, almost with excitement.

“It can’t be done! It ain’t possible, and I ain’t strong enough to pull the sled. V’y don’t you and George go together. I’ll stay–“

Captain laid a heavy hand on his shoulder.

“That’ll do. What are you talking about? George wouldn’t last two days, and you know it. Now listen. You don’t have to go, you infernal greasy dog, there are others in camp, and one of them will go if I walk him at the muzzle of a gun. I gave you first chance, because we’ve been good to you. Now get out.”

He snatched him from his seat and hurled him at the door, where he fell in a heap.

Klusky arose, and, although his eyes snapped wildly and he trembled, he spoke insidiously, with oily modulation.

“Vait a meenute, Meestaire Captain, vait a meenute. I didn’t say I vouldn’t go. Oi! Oi! Vat a man! Shoor I’ll go. Coitenly! You have been good to me and they have been devils. I hope they die.” He shook a bony fist in the direction of the camp, while his voice took on its fanatical shrillness. “They shall be in h—- before I help them, the pigs, but you–ah, you have been my friends, yes ?”

“All right; be here at daylight,” said Captain gruffly. Anger came slowly to him, and its trace was even slower in its leaving.

“I don’t like him,” said George, when he had slunk out. “He ain’t on the level. Watch him close, boy, he’s up to some devilment.”

“Keep up your courage, old man. I’ll be back in twelve days.” Captain said it with decision, though his heart sank as he felt the uncertainties before him.

George looked squarely into his eyes.

“God bless ye, boy,” he said. “I’ve cabined with many a man, but never one like you. I’m a hard old nut, an’ I ain’t worth what you’re goin’ to suffer, but mebbe you can save these other idiots. That’s what we’re put here for, to help them as is too ornery to help theirselves.” He smiled at Captain, and the young man left him blindly. He seldom smiled, and to see it now made his partner’s breast heave achingly.

“Good old George!” he murmured as they pulled out upon the river. “Good old George!” As they passed from the settlement an Indian came to the door of the last hovel.