the reply. "You see, tea is drunk mostly in cold
latitoods similar to this, and coffee in warm. The higher the latitood,
the hotter and stronger the tea, and the less you hear of coffee. At
forty-five or thereabouts they's drunk about alike, while south of that
coffee grows blacker and more common, while tea takes a back seat till
you get to the line, where it's mighty little used. Then as you go south
of that the same thing begins all over again; but there's not many would
notice sich things, and fewer as would put 'em to practical use like old
Kite done."

"Mr. Coombs," said Phil, "you sound pretty well thawed out, and if that
is the case we'll get under way again."

"Ay, ay, sir!" responded the mate, thrashing his long arms vigorously
across his chest to restore circulation, and then slipping resignedly
into his fur bag. "Anchor's apeak, sir." And away sped the sledges up
the broad level of the Tananah.

Every member of the party had by this time become so thoroughly broken
in to his duties, that when they made camp that night the promptness
with which it was prepared, as well as the ensuing comfort, was a
revelation to Jalap Coombs, who declared that there had been nothing
like it in the camps of the other party.

"Of course not," said Phil, "for they haven't got Serge Belcofsky along,
so how could their comfort equal ours?"

At this Serge, covered with confusion, replied, "Nonsense, Phil! You
know it is because we have got such capital campmen as Kurilla and
Chitsah with us."

At this the face of the elder Indian beamed with pleasure. He did not
exactly understand the conversation; but believing that he ought to make
some reply, he pointed to Jalap Coombs, and looking at Phil, remarked:

"You fadder. Yaas."

But the journey up the Tananah was by no means an unbroken record of
swift movings from one comfortable camp to another, or of jokes and
pleasantries. The days were now at their shortest, so that each could
boast only about four hours of sunlight, and even that was frequently
obscured by fierce storms, when the howling winds cut like knives, and
it required every ounce of Phil Ryder's pluck as well as Serge
Belcofsky's dogged determination to keep the little party in motion. The
feet of the poor dogs were often so pierced by ice slivers that their
tracks were marked with blood. The older and more experienced would bite
at these and pull them out. Others would howl with pain, while some
would lie down