drive us from our posts. It was
with this dauntless spirit we entered on the task before us.

And, indeed, it was one that called for all in a man of energy and
self-sacrifice. There was wood to get for the thawing of the ground;
there was a cabin to be built on the claim; and, lastly, there was a
vast dump to be taken out of the ground for the spring sluicing. We
planned things so that no man would be idle for a moment, and so that
every ounce of strength expended would show its result.

The Halfbreed took charge, and we, recognising it as his show, obeyed
him implicitly. He decided to put down two holes to bed-rock, and, after
much deliberation, selected the places. This was a matter for the
greatest judgment and experience, and we were satisfied that he had
both.

We ran up a little cabin and banked it nearly to the low eaves with
snow. By-and-bye more fell on the roof to the depth of three feet, so
that the place seemed like a huge white hummock. Only in front could you
recognise it as a cabin by the low doorway, where we had always to stoop
on entering. Within were our bunks, a tiny stove, a few boxes to sit on,
a few dishes, our grub; that was all. Often we regretted our big cabin
on the hill, with its calico-lined "den" and its separate kitchen. But
in this little box of a home we were to put in many weary months.

Not that the time seemed long to us; we were too busy for that. Indeed,
often we wished it were twice as long. Snow had fallen in September, and
by December we were in an Arctic world of uncompromising harshness. Day
after day the glass stood between forty and fifty below zero. It was
hatefully, dangerously cold. It seemed as if the frost-fiend had a cruel
grudge against us. It made us grim--and careful. We didn't talk much in
those days. We just worked, worked, worked, and when we did talk it was
of our work, our ceaseless work.

Would we strike it rich? It was all a gamble, the most exciting gamble
in the world. It thrilled our day hours with excitement; it haunted our
sleep; it lent strength to the pick-stroke and vigour to the
windlass-crank. It made us forget the bitter cold, till some one would
exclaim, and gently knead the fresh snow on our faces. The cold burned
our cheeks a fierce brick-red, and a frostbite showed on them like a
patch of white putty. The old scars, never healing, were like blotches
of lamp-black.

But neither cold nor fatigue could keep us away from the shaft and the
d