“I didn’t; Nicholas brought it, I s’pose, and was told to cache it up there.  Maybe that’s why he came late to give us a surprise.”

“Don’t believe it; we’d have heard him.  Somebody from the mission came by in the night and didn’t want to wake us, and saw there were dogs—­”

“It’s froze too hard to cut,” interrupted Salmon P. Hardy, who had been trying his jack-knife on one end; “it’s too big to go in any mortal pot.”

“And it’ll take a month to thaw!”

They tried chopping it, but you could more easily chop a bolt of linen sheeting.  The axe laboriously chewed out little bits and scattered shreds.

“Stop!  We’ll lose a lot that way.”

While they were lamenting this fact, and wondering what to do, the dogs set up a racket, and were answered by some others.  Benham was coming along at a rattling pace, his dogs very angry to find other dogs there, putting on airs of possession.

“We got all this moose-meat,” says Potts, when Benham arrived on the scene, “but we can’t cut it.”

“Of course not.  Where’s your hand-saw?”

The Boy brought it, and Mr. Benham triumphantly sawed off two fine large steaks.  Kaviak scraped up the meat saw-dust and ate it with grave satisfaction.  With a huge steak in each hand, the Colonel, beaming, led the procession back to the cabin.  The Boy and Mac cached the rest of the moose on the roof and followed.

“Fine team, that one o’ yours,” said Salmon P. Hardy to the trader. “You’ll get to Minook, anyhow.”

“Not me.”

“Hey?”

“I’m not going that way.”

“Mean to skip the country?  Got cold feet?”

“No.  I’m satisfied enough with the country,” said the trader quietly, and acknowledged the introduction to Mr. Schiff, sitting in bandages by the fire.

Benham turned back and called out something to his guide.

“I thought maybe you’d like some oysters for your Christmas dinner,” he said to the Colonel when he came in again, “so I got a couple o’ cans from the A. C. man down below;” and a mighty whoop went up.

The great rapture of that moment did not, however, prevent O’Flynn’s saying under his breath: 

“Did ye be chanct, now, think of bringin’ a dtrop o’—­hey?”

“No,” says Benham a little shortly.

“Huh!  Ye say that like’s if ye wuz a taytotlerr?”

“Not me.  But I find it no good to drink whiskey on the trail.”

“Ah!” says Salmon P. with interest, “you prefer brandy?”

“No,” says Benham, “I prefer tea.”

“Lorrd, now! look at that!”

“Drink spirit, and it’s all very fine and reviving for a few minutes; but a man can’t work on it.”

“It’s the wan thing, sorr,” says O’Flynn with solemnity—­“it’s the wan thing on the top o’ God’s futstool that makes me feel I cud wurruk.”

“Not in this climate; and you’re safe to take cold in the reaction.”