aterial habits are the less important. The
exchange of such things as a dainty menu for rough fare, of the stiff
leather shoe for the soft, shapeless moccasin, of the feather bed for a
couch in the snow, is after all a very easy matter. But his pinch will
come in learning properly to shape his mind's attitude toward all
things, and especially toward his fellow man. For the courtesies of
ordinary life, he must substitute unselfishness, forbearance, and
tolerance. Thus, and thus only, can he gain that pearl of great
price--true comradeship. He must not say 'thank you'; he must mean it
without opening his mouth, and prove it by responding in kind. In
short, he must substitute the deed for the word, the spirit for the
letter.

When the world rang with the tale of Arctic gold, and the lure of the
North gripped the heartstrings of men, Carter Weatherbee threw up his
snug clerkship, turned the half of his savings over to his wife, and
with the remainder bought an outfit. There was no romance in his
nature--the bondage of commerce had crushed all that; he was simply
tired of the ceaseless grind, and wished to risk great hazards in view
of corresponding returns. Like many another fool, disdaining the old
trails used by the Northland pioneers for a score of years, he hurried
to Edmonton in the spring of the year; and there, unluckily for his
soul's welfare, he allied himself with a party of men.

There was nothing unusual about this party, except its plans. Even its
goal, like that of all the other parties, was the Klondike. But the
route it had mapped out to attain that goal took away the breath of the
hardiest native, born and bred to the vicissitudes of the Northwest.
Even Jacques Baptiste, born of a Chippewa woman and a renegade voyageur
(having raised his first whimpers in a deerskin lodge north of the
sixty-fifth parallel, and had the same hushed by blissful sucks of raw
tallow), was surprised. Though he sold his services to them and agreed
to travel even to the never-opening ice, he shook his head ominously
whenever his advice was asked.

Percy Cuthfert's evil star must have been in the ascendant, for he,
too, joined this company of argonauts. He was an ordinary man, with a
bank account as deep as his culture, which is saying a good deal. He
had no reason to embark on such a venture--no reason in the world save
that he suffered from an abnormal development of sentimentality. He
mistook this for the true spirit of romanc