" Morganson asked in a faltering voice.

He had become unused to talking, and he was not acquainted with the
sound of his own voice. It seemed hoarse and strange.

"You've been dead for more'n two months, now," the barkeeper explained.
"You left here going south, and you never arrived at Selkirk. Where have
you been?"

"Chopping wood for the steamboat company," Morganson lied unsteadily.

He was still trying to become acquainted with his own voice. He hobbled
across the floor and leant against the bar. He knew he must lie
consistently; and while he maintained an appearance of careless
indifference, his heart was beating and pounding furiously and
irregularly, and he could not help looking hungrily at the three men by
the stove. They were the possessors of life--his life.

"But where in hell you been keeping yourself all this time?" the
barkeeper demanded.

"I located across the river," he answered. "I've got a mighty big stack
of wood chopped."

The barkeeper nodded. His face beamed with understanding.

"I heard sounds of chopping several times," he said. "So that was you,
eh? Have a drink?"

Morganson clutched the bar tightly. A drink! He could have thrown his
arms around the man's legs and kissed his feet. He tried vainly to utter
his acceptance; but the barkeeper had not waited and was already passing
out the bottle.

"But what did you do for grub?" the latter asked. "You don't look as if
you could chop wood to keep yourself warm. You look terribly bad,
friend."

Morganson yearned towards the delayed bottle and gulped dryly.

"I did the chopping before the scurvy got bad," he said. "Then I got a
moose right at the start. I've been living high all right. It's the
scurvy that's run me down."

He filled the glass, and added, "But the spruce tea's knocking it, I
think."

"Have another," the barkeeper said.

The action of the two glasses of whisky on Morganson's empty stomach and
weak condition was rapid. The next he knew he was sitting by the stove
on a box, and it seemed as though ages had passed. A tall,
broad-shouldered, black-whiskered man was paying for drinks. Morganson's
swimming eyes saw him drawing a greenback from a fat roll, and
Morganson's swimming eyes cleared on the instant. They were
hundred-dollar bills. It was life! His life! He felt an almost
irresistible impulse to snatch the money and dash madly out into the
night.

The black-whiskered man and one of his companions arose.

"Com