tisfied.

Leaving to others the task of building a permanent camp, my sturdy
partner, a couple of days later, started prospecting in company with
two others whom he had selected to represent the other outfit. The
thermometer was fifty-six degrees below zero, and yet for seven days,
with less than six hours' sleep, without a tent, those devoted idiots
hunted the sands of a near-by creek for gold, and really staked
claims.

On the way back one of the men grew sleepy and would have lain down
to die except for the vigorous treatment of Burton, who mauled him
and dragged him about and rubbed him with snow until his blood began
to circulate once more. In attempting to walk on the river, which was
again in motion, Burton fell through, wetting one leg above the knee.
It was still more than thirty degrees below zero, but what of that?
He merely kept going.

They reached the bank opposite the camp late on the seventh day, but
were unable to cross the moving ice. For the eighth night they
"danced around the fire as usual," not daring to sleep for fear of
freezing. They literally frosted on one side while scorching at the
fire on the other, turning like so many roasting pigs before the
blaze. The river solidified during the night and they crossed to the
camp to eat and sleep in safety.

A couple of weeks later they determined to move down the river to a
new stampede in Thistle Creek. Once more these indomitable souls
left their warm cabin, took up their beds and nearly two thousand
pounds of outfit and toiled down the river still farther into the
terrible north. The chronicle of this trip by Burton is of
mathematical brevity: "On 20th concluded to move. Took four days.
Very cold. Ther. down to 45 below. Froze one toe. Got claim--now
building cabin. Expect to begin singeing in a few days."

The toil, the suffering, the monotonous food, the lack of fire, he
did not dwell upon, but singeing, that is to say burning down through
the eternally frozen ground, was to begin at once. To singe a hole
into the soil ten or fifteen feet deep in the midst of the sunless
seventy of the arctic circle is no light task, but these men will do
it; if hardihood and honest toil are of any avail they will all share
in the precious sand whose shine has lured them through all the dark
days of the long trail, calling with such power that nothing could
stay them or turn them aside.

If they fail, well--

This out of all will remain,
They ha