went about its business, leaving Jacob Welse
the centre of a group of a dozen or so. The talk was of the famine,
but it was the talk of men. Even Dave Harney forgot to curse the
country for its sugar shortage, and waxed facetious over the
newcomers,--_chechaquos_, he called them, having recourse to the Siwash
tongue. In the midst of his remarks his quick eye lighted on a black
speck floating down with the mush-ice of the river. "Jest look at
that!" he cried. "A Peterborough canoe runnin' the ice!"

Twisting and turning, now paddling, now shoving clear of the floating
cakes, the two men in the canoe worked in to the rim-ice, along the
edge of which they drifted, waiting for an opening. Opposite the
channel cut out by the steamer, they drove their paddles deep and
darted into the calm dead water. The waiting group received them with
open arms, helping them up the bank and carrying their shell after them.

In its bottom were two leather mail-pouches, a couple of blankets,
coffee-pot and frying-pan, and a scant grub-sack. As for the men, so
frosted were they, and so numb with the cold, that they could hardly
stand. Dave Harney proposed whiskey, and was for haling them away at
once; but one delayed long enough to shake stiff hands with Jacob Welse.

"She's coming," he announced. "Passed her boat an hour back. It ought
to be round the bend any minute. I've got despatches for you, but I'll
see you later. Got to get something into me first." Turning to go
with Harney, he stopped suddenly and pointed up stream. "There she is
now. Just coming out past the bluff."

"Run along, boys, an' git yer whiskey," Harney admonished him and his
mate. "Tell 'm it's on me, double dose, an' jest excuse me not
drinkin' with you, fer I'm goin' to stay."

The Klondike was throwing a thick flow of ice, partly mush and partly
solid, and swept the boat out towards the middle of the Yukon. They
could see the struggle plainly from the bank,--four men standing up and
poling a way through the jarring cakes. A Yukon stove aboard was
sending up a trailing pillar of blue smoke, and, as the boat drew
closer, they could see a woman in the stern working the long
steering-sweep. At sight of this there was a snap and sparkle in Jacob
Welse's eyes. It was the first omen, and it was good, he thought. She
was still a Welse; a struggler and a fighter. The years of her culture
had not weakened her. Though tasting of the fruits of the first