shmart man that iver puts ut over on me at th'
Orderly-room. . . Fwhy du I not sind him into th' Post? . . . eyah! fwhy
du I not? . . ."

Chin sunk on his huge chest, he mused awhile.

George waited.

"Listen, bhoy!" A terrible earnestness crept into the soft voice. "I'll
tell ye th' tale. . . . 'Twas up at th' Chilkoot Pass--in the gold rush
av '98. . . . Together we was--Yorkey an' meself--stationed there undher
ould Bobby Belcher. Wan night--Mother av God! will I iver forghet ut?
Bitther cowld is th' Yukon, lad; th' like av ut yu' here in Alberta du
not know. Afther tu crazy lost _cheechacos_ we had been that day. We
found thim--frozen. . . . A blizzard had shprung up, but we shtrapped
th' stiffs on th' sled an' mushed ut oursilves tu save th' dogs.

"I am a big man, an' shtrong . . . . but Yorkey was th' betther man av us
tu that night--havin less weight tu pack. I was all in--dhrowsy, an'
wanted tu give up th' ghost an' shleep--an' shleep. . . . Nigh unto
death I was. . . ."

The murmuring voice died away. A shudder ran through the great frame at
the remembrance, while the hand clutching the bottle trembled violently.
Unconsciously Redmond shook with him; for the horror Slavin was living
over again just then enveloped his listener also.

"But Yorkey," he continued "wud not let me lie down. . . . God! how that
man did put his fishts an' mucklucks tu me an' pushed an' shtaggered wid
me' afther th' dogs, beggin' an' cursin' an' prayin' an' callin' me names
that ud fairly make th' dead relations av a man rise up out av their
graves. . . . Light-headed he got towards th' ind av th' thrail, poor
chap! shoutin' dhrill-ordhers an' Injia naygur talk, an' singin' great
songs an' chips av poethry--th' half av which I misremimber--excipt
thim--thim wurrds he said this night. 'Shaint Agnus Eve,' he calls ut.
Over an' over he kept repeathin' thim as he helped me shtaggerin'
along. . . 'God!' cries he, betune cursin' me an' th' dogs an' singin'
'Shaint Agnus Eve'--'Oh, help us this night! let us live, God! . . . oh,
let us live!--this poor bloody Oirishman an' me! . . .'"

The sergeant's head was thrown back now, gazing full at the evening star
the moonbeams shining upon his upturned, powerful face. Cold as was the
night Redmond could see glistening beads of sweat on his forehead. As
one himself under the spell of the fear of death, the younger man
silently watched that face--fascinated. It was calm now,