o strong. Now he was an
animal! A four years' fight with the raw things of life had made him
that, and inch for inch he measured up with Conniston. And Conniston,
sitting opposite him, looked enough like him to be a twin brother. He
seemed to read the thought in Keith's mind. There was an amused glitter
in his eyes.

"I suppose it's largely because of the hair on our faces," he said.
"You know a beard can cover a multitude of physical sins--and
differences, old chap. I wore mine two years before I started out after
you, vandyked rather carefully, you understand, so you'd better not use
a razor. Physically you won't run a ghost of a chance of being caught.
You'll look the part. The real fun is coming in other ways. In the next
twenty-four hours you've got to learn by heart the history of Derwent
Conniston from the day he joined the Royal Mounted. We won't go back
further than that, for it wouldn't interest you, and ancient history
won't turn up to trouble you. Your biggest danger will be with
McDowell, commanding F Division at Prince Albert. He's a human fox of
the old military school, mustaches and all, and he can see through
boiler-plate. But he's got a big heart. He has been a good friend of
mine, so along with Derwent Conniston's story you've got to load up
with a lot about McDowell, too. There are many things--OH, GOD--"

He flung a hand to his chest. Grim horror settled in the little cabin
as the cough convulsed him. And over it the wind shrieked again,
swallowing up the yapping of the foxes and the rumble of the ice.

That night, in the yellow sputter of the seal-oil lamp, the fight
began. Grim-faced--one realizing the nearness of death and struggling
to hold it back, the other praying for time--two men went through the
amazing process of trading their identities. From the beginning it was
Conniston's fight. And Keith, looking at him, knew that in this last
mighty effort to die game the Englishman was narrowing the slight
margin of hours ahead of him. Keith had loved but one man, his father.
In this fight he learned to love another, Conniston. And once he cried
out bitterly that it was unfair, that Conniston should live and he
should die. The dying Englishman smiled and laid a hand on his, and
Keith felt that the hand was damp with a cold sweat.

Through the terrible hours that followed Keith felt the strength and
courage of the dying man becoming slowly a part of himself. The thing
was epic. Conniston, thrott