A DAY'S LODGING
It was the gosh-dangdest stampede I ever seen. A thousand dog-
teams hittin' the ice. You couldn't see 'm fer smoke. Two white
men an' a Swede froze to death that night, an' there was a dozen
busted their lungs. But didn't I see with my own eyes the bottom
of the water-hole? It was yellow with gold like a mustard-plaster.
That's why I staked the Yukon for a minin' claim. That's what made
the stampede. An' then there was nothin' to it. That's what I
said - NOTHIN' to it. An' I ain't got over guessin' yet. -
NARRATIVE OF SHORTY.
JOHN MESSNER clung with mittened hand to the bucking gee-pole and
held the sled in the trail. With the other mittened hand he rubbed
his cheeks and nose. He rubbed his cheeks and nose every little
while. In point of fact, he rarely ceased from rubbing them, and
sometimes, as their numbness increased, he rubbed fiercely. His
forehead was covered by the visor of his fur cap, the flaps of
which went over his ears. The rest of his face was protected by a
thick beard, golden-brown under its coating of frost.
Pages:
37
38
39
40
41
42
43
44
45
46
47
48
49
50
51
52
53
54
55
56
57
58
59
60
61