Beyond contradiction, this was leading to a yarn; so I baited my hook by ransacking my memory for whatever data I possessed on the subject in hand.  To begin with, I emphasized that the animal was prehistoric, and marshalled all my facts in support of this.  I mentioned the Siberian sand-bars that abounded with ancient mammoth bones; spoke of the large quantities of fossil ivory purchased from the Innuits by the Alaska Commercial Company; and acknowledged having myself mined six- and eight-foot tusks from the pay gravel of the Klondike creeks.  “All fossils,” I concluded, “found in the midst of debris deposited through countless ages.”

“I remember when I was a kid,” Thomas Stevens sniffed (he had a most confounded way of sniffing), “that I saw a petrified water-melon.  Hence, though mistaken persons sometimes delude themselves into thinking that they are really raising or eating them, there are no such things as extant water-melons?”

“But the question of food,” I objected, ignoring his point, which was puerile and without bearing.  “The soil must bring forth vegetable life in lavish abundance to support so monstrous creations.  Nowhere in the North is the soil so prolific.  Ergo, the mammoth cannot exist.”

“I pardon your ignorance concerning many matters of this Northland, for you are a young man and have travelled little; but, at the same time, I am inclined to agree with you on one thing.  The mammoth no longer exists.  How do I know?  I killed the last one with my own right arm.”

Thus spake Nimrod, the mighty Hunter.  I threw a stick of firewood at the dogs and bade them quit their unholy howling, and waited.  Undoubtedly this liar of singular felicity would open his mouth and requite me for my St. Elias bear.

“It was this way,” he at last began, after the appropriate silence had intervened.  “I was in camp one day—­”

“Where?” I interrupted.

He waved his hand vaguely in the direction of the north-east, where stretched a terra incognita into which vastness few men have strayed and fewer emerged.  “I was in camp one day with Klooch.  Klooch was as handsome a little kamooks as ever whined betwixt the traces or shoved nose into a camp kettle.  Her father was a full-blood Malemute from Russian Pastilik on Bering Sea, and I bred her, and with understanding, out of a clean-legged bitch of the Hudson Bay stock.  I tell you, O man, she was a corker combination.  And now, on this day I have in mind, she was brought to pup through a pure wild wolf of the woods—­grey, and long of limb, with big lungs and no end of staying powers.  Say!  Was there ever the like?  It was a new breed of dog I had started, and I could look forward to big things.