to harness, crowded around him. His helplessness appealed
to the brutes. They felt that something was wrong, though they knew not
what, and they crowded about, howling their mournful sympathy.

"Chook! Mush-on! you Siwashes!" he cried, attempting, in a vermicular
way, to kick at them, and discovering himself to be tottering on the edge
of a declivity. As soon as the animals had scattered, he devoted himself
to the significance of that declivity which he felt to be there but could
not see. Nor was he long in arriving at a correct conclusion. In the
nature of things, he figured, man is lazy. He does no more than he has
to. When he builds a cabin he must put dirt on the roof. From these
premises it was logical that he should carry that dirt no further than
was absolutely necessary. Therefore, he lay upon the edge of the hole
from which the dirt had been taken to roof Jacob Kent's cabin. This
knowledge, properly utilized, might prolong things, he thought; and he
then turned his attention to the moose-hide thongs which bound him. His
hands were tied behind him, and pressing against the snow, they were wet
with the contact. This moistening of the raw-hide he knew would tend to
make it stretch, and, without apparent effort, he endeavored to stretch
it more and more.

He watched the trail hungrily, and when in the direction of Sixty Mile a
dark speck appeared for a moment against the white background of an ice-
jam, he cast an anxious eye at the sun. It had climbed nearly to the
zenith. Now and again he caught the black speck clearing the hills of
ice and sinking into the intervening hollows; but he dared not permit
himself more than the most cursory glances for fear of rousing his
enemy's suspicion. Once, when Jacob Kent rose to his feet and searched
the trail with care, Cardegee was frightened, but the dog-sled had struck
a piece of trail running parallel with a jam, and remained out of sight
till the danger was past.

"I'll see you 'ung for this," Cardegee threatened, attempting to draw the
other's attention. "An' you'll rot in 'ell, jes' you see if you don't.

"I say," he cried, after another pause; "d'ye b'lieve in ghosts?" Kent's
sudden start made him sure of his ground, and he went on: "Now a ghost
'as the right to 'aunt a man wot don't do wot he says; and you can't
shuffle me off till eight bells--wot I mean is twelve o'clock--can you?
'Cos if you do, it'll 'appen as 'ow I'll 'aunt you. D'ye 'ear?