as insufferable, and--it was unjust.
The North had played him a devilish trick, it had betrayed him, it had
bound him to his benefactor with chains of gratitude which were irksome.
Had they been real chains they could have galled him no more than at
this moment.

As time passed the men spoke less frequently to each other. Grant joshed
his mate roughly, once or twice, masking beneath an assumption of
jocularity his own vague irritation at the change that had come over
them. It was as if he had probed at an open wound with clumsy fingers.

Cantwell had by this time assumed most of those petty camp tasks which
provoke tired trailers, those humdrum duties which are so trying to
exhausted nerves, and of course they wore upon him as they wear upon
every man. But, once he had taken them over, he began to resent Grant's
easy relinquishment; it rankled him to realize how willingly the other
allowed him to do the cooking, the dish-washing, the fire-building, the
bed-making. Little monotonies of this kind form the hardest part of
winter travel, they are the rocks upon which friendships founder and
partnerships are wrecked. Out on the trail, nature equalizes the work to
a great extent, and no man can shirk unduly, but in camp, inside the
cramped confines of a tent pitched on boughs laid over the snow, it is
very different. There one must busy himself while the other rests and
keeps his legs out of the way if possible. One man sits on the bedding
at the rear of the shelter, and shivers, while the other squats over a
tantalizing fire of green wood, blistering his face and parboiling his
limbs inside his sweaty clothing. Dishes must be passed, food divided,
and it is poor food, poorly prepared at best. Sometimes men criticize
and voice longings for better grub and better cooking. Remarks of this
kind have been known to result in tragedies, bitter words and flaming
curses--then, perhaps, wild actions, memories of which the later years
can never erase.

It is but one prank of the wilderness, one grim manifestation of its
silent forces.

Had Grant been unable to do his part Cantwell would have willingly
accepted the added burden, but Mort was able, he was nimble and "handy,"
he was the better cook of the two; in fact, he was the better man in
every way--or so he believed. Cantwell sneered at the last thought, and
the memory of his debt was like bitter medicine.

His resentment--in reality nothing more than a phase of insanity begot