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of isolation and silence--could not help but communicate itself to his companion, and there resulted a mutual antagonism, which grew into a dislike, then festered into something more, something strange, reasonless, yet terribly vivid and amazingly potent for evil. Neither man ever mentioned it--their tongues were clenched between their teeth and they held themselves in check with harsh hands--but it was constantly in their minds, nevertheless. No man who has not suffered the manifold irritations of such an intimate association can appreciate the gnawing canker of animosity like this. It was dangerous because there was no relief from it: the two were bound together as by gyves; they shared each other's every action and every plan; they trod in each other's tracks, slept in the same bed, ate from the same plate. They were like prisoners ironed to the same staple. Each fought the obsession in his own way, but it is hard to fight the impalpable, hence their sick fancies grew in spite of themselves. Their minds needed food to prey upon, but found none. Each began to criticize the other silently, to sneer at his weaknesses, to meditate derisively upon his peculiarities. After a time they no longer resisted the advance of these poisonous thoughts, but welcomed it. On more than one occasion the embers of their wrath were upon the point of bursting into flame, but each realized that the first ill-considered word would serve to slip the leash from those demons that were straining to go free, and so managed to restrain himself. The crisis came one crisp morning when a dog-team whirled around a bend in the river and a white man hailed them. He was the mail-carrier, on his way out from Nome, and he brought news of the "inside." "Where are you boys bound for?" he inquired when greetings were over and gossip of the trail had passed. "We're going to the Stony River strike," Grant told him. "Stony River? Up the Kuskokwim?" "Yes!" The mail-man laughed. "Can you beat that? Ain't you heard about Stony River?" "No!" "Why, it's a fake--no such place." There was a silence; the partners avoided each other's eyes. "MacDonald, the fellow that started it, is on his way to Dawson. There's a gang after him, too, and if he's caught it'll go hard with him. He wrote the letters--to himself--and spread the news just to raise a grub-stake. He cleaned up big before they got onto him. He peddled his tips for real money." "Ye
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