nodded.

"Yes."

"Where to?"

"The sea-coast."

The half-breed laughed gutturally.

"Forty Mile Creek. Sea-coast. On foot. Alone. Winter. You must be
mad."

The traveller shook his head.

"Not mad. I could have done it, only I lost my way. I had all my
stages thought out carefully. I tramped from the sea-coast originally.
Where am I now?"

The half-breed eyed the speaker curiously. He seemed to think well
before he answered. Then--

"Within a few miles of the Pass. To the north."

An impressive silence followed. The half-breed continued to eye the
sick man, and, to judge from the expression of his face, his thoughts
were not altogether unpleasant. He watched the weary face before him
until the eyes gradually closed, and, in spite of the burning pains
of the frost-bites, exhaustion did its work, and the man slept. He
waited for some moments listening to the heavy, regular breathing,
then he turned to his companions and spoke long and earnestly in a
curious tongue. One of the Eskimos rose and removed a piece of bacon
from a nail in the wall. This he placed in the camp-kettle on the
stove. Then he took a tin billy and dipped it full from a bucket
containing beans that had been set to soak. These also went into the
camp-kettle. Then the fellow threw himself down again upon his
blankets, and, for some time, the three men continued to converse in
low tones. They glanced frequently at the sleeper, and occasionally
gurgled out a curious throaty chuckle. Their whole attitude was
furtive, and the man slept on.

An hour passed--two. The third was more than half gone. The hut reeked
with the smell of cooking victuals. The Eskimo, who seemed to act as
cook, occasionally looked into the camp-kettle. The other two were
lying on their blankets, sometimes conversing, but more often silent,
gazing stolidly before them. At length the cook uttered a sharp
ejaculation and lifted the steaming kettle from its place on the
stove. Then he produced four deep pannikins from a sack, and four
greasy-looking spoons. From another he produced a pile of biscuits.
"Hard tack," well known on the northern trails.

Supper was ready, and the pock-marked man leant over and roused the
traveller.

"Food," he said laconically, as the startled sleeper rubbed his eyes.

The man sat up and gazed hungrily at the iron pot. The Indian served
out the pork with ruthless hands. A knife divided the piece into four,
and he placed one in each pannikin.