dian hospitality ordains, to the
warmest places in the best hut, with two young squaws, one old one, and
five children, all sleeping together on the floor, as a matter of
course.

The Colonel and the Boy had flung themselves down on top of their
sleeping-bag, fed and warmed and comforted. Only the old squaw was
still up. She had been looking over the travellers' boots and "mitts,"
and now, without a word or even a look being exchanged upon the
subject, she sat there in the corner, by the dim, seal-oil light,
sewing on new thongs, patching up holes, and making the strange men
tidy--men she had never seen before and would never see again. And
this, no tribute to the Colonel's generosity or the youth and friendly
manners of the Boy. They knew the old squaw would have done just the
same had the mucklucks and the mitts belonged to "the tramp of the
Yukon," with nothing to barter and not a cent in his pocket. This,
again, is a Siwash custom.

The old squaw coughed and wiped her eyes. The children coughed in their
sleep.

The dogs outside were howling like human beings put to torture. But the
sound no longer had power to freeze the blood of the trail-men.

The Colonel merely damned them. The Boy lifted his head, and listened
for Nig's note. The battle raged nearer; a great scampering went by the
tent.

"Nig!"

A scuffling and snuffing round the bottom of the tent. The Boy, on a
sudden impulse, reached out and lifted the flap.

"Got your bandage on? Come here."

Nig brisked in with the air of one having very little time to waste.

"Lord! I should think you'd be glad to lie down. _I_ am. Let's see your
paw. Here, come over to the light." He stepped very carefully over the
feet of the other inhabitants till he reached the old woman's corner.
Nig, following calmly, walked on prostrate bodies till he reached his
friend.

"Now, your paw, pardner. F-ith! Bad, ain't it?" he appealed to the
toothless squaw. Her best friend could not have said her wizened regard
was exactly sympathetic, but it was attentive. She seemed intelligent
as well as kind.

"Look here," whispered the Boy, "let that muckluck string o' mine
alone." He drew it away, and dropped it between his knees. "Haven't you
got something or other to make some shoes for Nig? Hein?" He
pantomimed, but she only stared. "Like this." He pulled out his knife,
and cut off the end of one leg of his "shaps," and gathered it gently
round Nig's nearest foot. "Little dog-b