ck with the mail,' says he, and we hit for camp on
the run. Only fifteen mile, she is, but I was all in when we got
there, keepin' up with Justus. His eyes outshone the snow-glitter
and he sang--all the time he wasn't roasting me for being so
slow--claimed I was active as a toad-stool. A man ain't got no
license to excite hisself unless he's struck pay dirt--or got a
divorce.

"'Gi'me my mail, quick!' he says to Windy, who had tinkered up a
one-night stand post-office and dealt out letters, at five dollars
per let.'

"'Nothing doing,' says Windy.

"'Oh, yes there is,' he replies, still smiling; 'she writes me every
week.'

"'I got all there was at Dawson,' Windy give back, 'and there ain't a
thing for you!'

"I consider the tragedy of this north country lies in its mail
service. Uncle Sam institutes rural deliveries, so the bolomen can
register poisoned arrowheads to the Igorrotes in exchange for recipes
to make roulade of naval officer, but his American miners in Alaska
go shy on home news for eight months every year.

"That was the last mail we had till June.

"When the river broke we cleaned up one hundred and eighty-seven
dollars' worth of lovely, yellow dust, and seven hundred and
thirty-five dollars in beautiful yellow bills from the post.

"The first boat down from Dawson brought mail, and I stood beside him
when he got his. He shook so he held on to the purser's window.
Instead of a stack of squares overrun with female chiropody, there
was only one for him--a long, hungry sport, with indications of a law
firm in the northwest corner. It charmed him like a rattler. He
seemed scared to open it. Two or three times he tried and stopped.

"'They're dead,' thinks I; and, sure enough, when he'd looked, I knew
it was so, and felt for his hand. Sympathy don't travel by word of
mouth between pardners. It's the grip of the hand or the look of the
eye.

"'What cause?' says I.

"He turned, and s'help me, I never want to see the like again. His
face was plumb grey and dead, like wet ashes, while his eyes scorched
through, all dry and hot. Lines was sinkin' into it as I looked.

"'It's worse,' says he, 'unless it's a joke.' He handed me the dope:
'In re Olive Troop Morrow _vs_. Justus Morrow,' and a letter stating
that out of regard for her feelings, and bein' a gentleman, he wasn't
expected to cause a scandal, but to let her get the divorce by
default. No explanation; no word from her; nothing.