Clinging to the gee-pole with his
right band and with his left rubbing cheeks and nose, he stumbled
over the rope as the dogs swung on a bend.
"Mush-on, you poor, sore-footed brutes!" he cried. "That's it,
mush-on!"
THE WHITE MAN'S WAY
"TO cook by your fire and to sleep under your roof for the night,"
I had announced on entering old Ebbits's cabin; and he had looked
at me blear-eyed and vacuous, while Zilla had favored me with a
sour face and a contemptuous grunt. Zilla was his wife, and no
more bitter-tongued, implacable old squaw dwelt on the Yukon. Nor
would I have stopped there had my dogs been less tired or had the
rest of the village been inhabited. But this cabin alone had I
found occupied, and in this cabin, perforce, I took my shelter.
Old Ebbits now and again pulled his tangled wits together, and
hints and sparkles of intelligence came and went in his eyes.
Several times during the preparation of my supper he even essayed
hospitable inquiries about my health, the condition and number of
my dogs, and the distance I had travelled that day.
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