ours, Sprague pulled his oar in and said they would
run back into the mouth of the river for shelter. Stine seconded him,
and the several hard-won miles were lost. A second day, and a third,
the same fruitless attempt was made. In the river mouth, the continually
arriving boats from White Horse made a flotilla of over two hundred.
Each day forty or fifty arrived, and only two or three won to the
northwest shore of the lake and did not come back. Ice was now forming
in the eddies, and connecting from eddy to eddy in thin lines around the
points. The freeze-up was very imminent.

"We could make it if they had the souls of clams," Kit told Shorty, as
they dried their moccasins by the fire on the evening of the third day.
"We could have made it to-day if they hadn't turned back. Another hour's
work would have fetched that west shore. They're--they're babes in the
woods."

"Sure," Shorty agreed. He turned his moccasin to the flame and debated a
moment. "Look here, Smoke. It's hundreds of miles to Dawson. If we don't
want to freeze in here, we've got to do something. What d'ye say?"

Kit looked at him, and waited.

"We've got the immortal cinch on them two babes," Shorty expounded.
"They can give orders an' shed mazuma, but as you say, they're plum
babes. If we're goin' to Dawson, we got to take charge of this here
outfit."

They looked at each other.

"It's a go," said Kit, as his hand went out in ratification.

In the morning, long before daylight, Shorty issued his call. "Come on!"
he roared. "Tumble out, you sleepers! Here's your coffee! Kick into it!
We're goin' to make a start!"

Grumbling and complaining, Stine and Sprague were forced to get under
way two hours earlier than ever before. If anything, the gale was
stiffer, and in a short time every man's face was iced up, while the
oars were heavy with ice. Three hours they struggled, and four, one man
steering, one chopping ice, two toiling at the oars, and each taking his
various turns. The northwest shore loomed nearer and nearer. The gale
blew ever harder, and at last Sprague pulled in his oar in token of
surrender. Shorty sprang to it, though his relief had only begun.

"Chop ice," he said, handing Sprague the hatchet.

"But what's the use?" the other whined. "We can't make it. We're going
to turn back."

"We're going on," said Shorty. "Chop ice. An' when you feel better you
can spell me."

It was heart-breaking toil, but they gained the shore, only t