t.

"Life ain't no punkins without whiskey an' sweetenin'," was Shorty's
greeting, as he pulled lumps of ice from his thawing moustache and flung
them rattling on the floor. "An' I sure just got eighteen pounds of that
same sweetenin'. The geezer only charged three dollars a pound for it.
What luck did you have?"

"I, too, have not been idle," Smoke answered with pride. "I bought fifty
pounds of flour. And there's a man up on Adam Creek who says he'll let
me have fifty pounds more to-morrow."

"Great! We'll sure live till the river opens. Say, Smoke, them dogs of
ourn is the goods. A dog-buyer offered me two hundred apiece for the
five of them. I told him nothin' doin'. They sure took on class when
they got meat to get outside of; but it goes against the grain, feedin'
dog-critters on grub that's worth two an' a half a pound. Come on
an' have a drink. I just got to celebrate them eighteen pounds of
sweetenin'."

Several minutes later, as he weighed in on the gold-scales for the
drinks, he gave a start of recollection.

"I plum forgot that man I was to meet in the Tivoli. He's got some
spoiled bacon he'll sell for a dollar an' a half a pound. We can feed it
to the dogs an' save a dollar a day on each's board-bill. So long."

"So long," said Smoke. "I'm goin' to the cabin an' turn in."

Hardly had Shorty left the place, when a fur-clad man entered through
the double storm-doors. His face lighted at sight of Smoke, who
recognized him as Breck, the man whose boat they had run through the Box
Canyon and White Horse Rapids.

"I heard you were in town," Breck said hurriedly, as they shook hands.
"Been looking for you for half an hour. Come outside, I want to talk
with you."

Smoke looked regretfully at the roaring, red-hot stove.

"Won't this do?"

"No; it's important. Come outside."

As they emerged, Smoke drew off one mitten, lighted a match, and glanced
at the thermometer that hung beside the door. He remittened his naked
hand hastily as if the frost had burned him. Overhead arched the flaming
aurora borealis, while from all Dawson arose the mournful howling of
thousands of wolf-dogs.

"What did it say?" Breck asked.

"Sixty below." Kit spat experimentally, and the spittle crackled in the
air. "And the thermometer is certainly working. It's falling all the
time. An hour ago it was only fifty-two. Don't tell me it's a stampede."

"It is," Breck whispered back cautiously, casting anxious eyes about in
fear