came upon them in the early winter
they found them in bomb-proof hovels, sunk into the muck, banked with
log walls, and thatched over with dirt and sod.

"Where are your windows and ventilators?" they were asked, and
collectively the camp laughed at the question. _They_ knew how to
keep snug and warm even if half-witted "sourdoughs" didn't. _They_
weren't taking any chances on freezing, not on your tin-type, no
outdoor work and exposure for them!

As the winter settled, they snuggled back, ate three meals and more
daily of bacon, beans, and baking-powder bread; playing cribbage for
an appetite. They undertook no exercise more violent than seven-up,
while the wood-cutting fell as a curse upon those unfortunates who
lost at the game. They giggled at Captain and the big whaler who
daily, snow or blow, hit the trail or wielded pick and shovel.

However, as the two maintained their practice, the camp grew to
resent their industry, and, as is possible only in utterly idle
communities, there sprung up a virulence totally out of proportion,
and, founded without reason, most difficult to dispel. Before they
knew it, the two were disliked and distrusted; their presence
ignored; their society shunned.

Captain had talked to many in the camp. "You'll get scurvy, sure,
living in these dark houses. They're damp and dirty, and you don't
exercise. Besides, there isn't a pound of fresh grub in camp."

Figuratively, the camp's nose had tilted at this, and it stated
pompously that it were better to preserve its classic purity of
features and pro rata of toes, than to jeopardize these adjuncts
through fear of a possible blood disease.

"Blood disease, eh?" George snorted like a sea-lion. "Wait till
your legs get black and you spit your teeth out like plum-pits--mebbe
you'll listen then. It'll come, see if it don't."

He was right. Yet when the plague did grip the camp and men died,
one in five, they failed to rise to it. Instead of fighting manfully
they lapsed into a frightened, stubborn coma.

There was one, and only one, who did not. Klusky the Jew; Klusky the
pariah. They said he worked just to be ornery and different from the
rest, he hated them so. They enjoyed baiting him to witness his
fury. It sated that taint of Roman cruelty inherent in the man of
ignorance. He was all the amusement they had, for it wasn't policy
to stir up the two others--they might slop over and clean up the
village. So they contin