im, he stood and batted his
squinting eyes uncomprehendingly. "Six years," he mumbled, "six years
buried alive. Six years living with weasels, and foxes, and fish without
eyes. I was thirty, then--and in six years I'm eighty--eighty years old
if I'm a day. Look at me! Ain't I eighty?"

In truth, the man looked eighty, thought Connie as he glanced into the
face with its faded squinting eyes, the brow wrinkled and white as
paper, and the long white hair and beard that hung about his shoulders.
Aloud he said, "No, you'll be all right again in a little while. Living
in the dark that way has hurt your eyes, and turned your skin white, and
the worry about getting out has made your hair turn grey but you can cut
your hair, and shave off your whiskers, and the sun will tan you up
again. Let's eat now, and after supper if you feel like it you can tell
us how it happened."

The man ate ravenously--so ravenously in fact, that Connie who had
learned that a starving man should be fed slowly at first, uttered a
protest. "You better go a little easy on the grub," he cautioned. "Not
that we haven't got plenty, but for your own good. Anyone that hasn't
had enough to eat for quite a while has got to take it slow."

The man looked at the boy in surprise. "It ain't the grub--it's the
_cooking_. I've had plenty of grub, but I ain't had any fire."

After supper the man begged to be allowed to help wash the dishes, and
when the task was finished, he drew his chair directly in front of the
stove, and opening the door, sat staring into the flames. "Seems like I
just got to look at the fire," he explained, "I ain't seen one in so
long."

"And you ate all your grub raw?" asked the boy.

James Dean settled himself in his chair, and shook his head. "No, not
raw. I might's well begin at the start. There's times when my head seems
to kind of go wrong, but it's all right now."

"Wait a few days, if you'd rather," suggested the boy, but the man shook
his head:

"No, I feel fine--I'd about give up ever seein' men again. Let's see
where'll I begin. I come north eight year ago. Prospected the
Coppermine, but there ain't nothin' there. Then I built me a cabin south
of the big lake. From there I prospected an' trapped, an' traded with
McTavish at Fort Norman. One time I struck some colour on the shore of
the lake, right at the foot of the hill where you found me. Looked like
it had come out of rotted quartz, an' I figured the mother lode would
may