ersa_. They're raking up old grievances of their childhood days,
and the end of it is they've once more decided to halve tip the outfit.
They're mad enough to kill each other. They've even decided to cut their
boat in two."

It was truly so. We went and watched them. Each had a bitter
determination on his face. They were sawing the boat through the middle.
Afterwards, I believe, they patched up their ends and made a successful
trip to Dawson.

The ice was going fast. Strangers were still coming in over the trail
with awful tales of its horrors. Bennett was all excitement and seething
life. Thousands of ungainly boats, rafts and scows were waiting to be
launched. Already craft were beginning to come through from Lindeman,
rushing down the fierce torrent between the two lakes. From where we
were camped we saw them pass. There were ugly rapids and a fang-like
rock, against which many a luckless craft was piled up.

It was the most fascinating thing in the world to watch these daring
Argonauts rush the rapids, to speculate whether or not they would get
through. The stroke of an oar, a few feet to right or left, meant
unspeakable calamity. Poor souls! Their faces of utter despair as they
landed dripping from the water and saw their precious goods disappearing
in the angry foam would have moved a heart of stone. As one man said, in
the bitterness of his heart:

"Oh, boys, what a funny God we've got!"

There was a man who came sailing through the passage with a fine boat
and a rich outfit. He had lugged it over the trail at the cost of
infinite toil and weariness. Now his heart was full of hope. Suddenly he
was in the whirl of the current, then all at once loomed up the cruel
rock. His face blanched with horror. Frantically he tried to avoid it.
No use. Crash! and his frail boat splintered like matchwood.

But this man was a fighter. He set his jaw. Once more he went back over
that deadly trail. He bought, at great expense, a new outfit and had
packers hustle it over the trail. He procured a new boat. Once more he
sailed through the narrow canyon. His face was set and grim.

Suddenly, like some iron Nemesis, once more loomed up the fatal rock. He
struggled gallantly, but again the current seemed to grip him and throw
him on that deadly fang. With another sickening crash he saw his goods
sink in the seething waters.

Did he give up? No! A third time he struggled, weary, heartbroken, over
that trail. He had little left