"Bah! You fellers no good--too beeg in the ches', too leetle in the
forehead. She'll tak' the heducate mans for stan' the 'ardsheep--lak'
me an' Meestaire Weelard."
NORTH OF FIFTY-THREE
Big George was drinking, and the activities of the little Arctic
mining camp were paralysed. Events invariably ceased their progress
and marked time when George became excessive, and now nothing of
public consequence stirred except the quicksilver, which was retiring
fearfully into its bulb at the song of the wind which came racing
over the lonesome, bitter, northward waste of tundra.
He held the centre of the floor at the Northern Club, and proclaimed
his modest virtues in a voice as pleasant as the cough of a
bull-walrus.
"Yes, me! Little Georgie! I did it. I've licked 'em all from
Herschel Island to Dutch Harbour, big uns and little uns. When they
didn't suit I made 'em over. I'm the boss carpenter of the Arctic
and I own this camp; don't I, Slim? Hey? Answer me!" he roared at
the emaciated bearer of the title, whose attention seemed wandering
from the inventory of George's startling traits toward a card game.
Pages:
144
145
146
147
148
149
150
151
152
153
154
155
156
157
158
159
160
161
162
163
164
165
166
167
168