ted with his toe to
the water lapping out from under the ice and creeping greedily towards
them. "A foot rise every ten minutes."

"Danger?" he scoffed. "Not on your life. It's got to go. Them
islands"--waving his hand indefinitely down river--"can't hold up under
more pressure. If they don't let go the ice, the ice'll scour them
clean out of the bed of the Yukon. Sure! But I've got to be chasin'
back. Lower ground down our way. Fifteen inches on the cabin floor,
and McPherson and Corliss hustlin' perishables into the bunks."

"Tell McPherson to be ready for a call," Jacob Welse shouted after him.
And then to Frona, "Now's the time for St. Vincent to cross the
back-channel."

The baron, shivering barefooted, pulled out his watch. "Ten minutes to
three," he chattered.

"Hadn't you better go back and get your moccasins?" Frona asked.
"There will be time."

"And miss the magnificence? Hark!"

From nowhere in particular a brisk crackling arose, then died away.
The ice was in motion. Slowly, very slowly, it proceeded down stream.
There was no commotion, no ear-splitting thunder, no splendid display
of force; simply a silent flood of white, an orderly procession of
tight-packed ice--packed so closely that not a drop of water was in
evidence. It was there, somewhere, down underneath; but it had to be
taken on faith. There was a dull hum or muffled grating, but so low in
pitch that the ear strained to catch it.

"Ah! Where is the magnificence? It is a fake!"

The baron shook his fists angrily at the river, and Jacob Welse's thick
brows seemed to draw down in order to hide the grim smile in his eyes.

"Ha! ha! I laugh! I snap my fingers! See! I defy!"

As the challenge left his lips. Baron Courbertin stepped upon a cake
which rubbed lightly past at his feet. So unexpected was it, that when
Jacob Welse reached after him he was gone.

The ice was picking up in momentum, and the hum growing louder and more
threatening. Balancing gracefully, like a circus-rider, the Frenchman
whirled away along the rim of the bank. Fifty precarious feet he rode,
his mount becoming more unstable every instant, and he leaped neatly to
the shore. He came back laughing, and received for his pains two or
three of the choicest phrases Jacob Welse could select from the
essentially masculine portion of his vocabulary.

"And for why?" Courbertin demanded, stung to the quick.

"For why?" Jacob Welse mimicked wrathfully