When he arrived at Stewart River, seventy from Dawson, five of his dogs were gone, and the remainder were falling in the traces.  He, also, was in the traces, hauling with what little strength was left in him.  Even then he was barely crawling along ten miles a day.  His cheek-bones and nose, frost-bitten again and again, were turned bloody-black and hideous.  The thumb, which was separated from the fingers by the gee-pole, had likewise been nipped and gave him great pain.  The monstrous moccasin still incased his foot, and strange pains were beginning to rack the leg.  At Sixty Mile, the last beans, which he had been rationing for some time, were finished; yet he steadfastly refused to touch the eggs.  He could not reconcile his mind to the legitimacy of it, and staggered and fell along the way to Indian River.  Here a fresh-killed moose and an open-handed old-timer gave him and his dogs new strength, and at Ainslie’s he felt repaid for it all when a stampede, ripe from Dawson in five hours, was sure he could get a dollar and a quarter for every egg he possessed.

He came up the steep bank by the Dawson barracks with fluttering heart and shaking knees.  The dogs were so weak that he was forced to rest them, and, waiting, he leaned limply against the gee-pole.  A man, an eminently decorous-looking man, came sauntering by in a great bearskin coat.  He glanced at Rasmunsen curiously, then stopped and ran a speculative eye over the dogs and the three lashed sleds.

“What you got?” he asked.

“Eggs,” Rasmunsen answered huskily, hardly able to pitch his voice above a whisper.

“Eggs!  Whoopee!  Whoopee!” He sprang up into the air, gyrated madly, and finished with half-a-dozen war steps.  “You don’t say—­all of ’em?”

“All of ’em.”

“Say, you must be the Egg Man.”  He walked around and viewed Rasmunsen from the other side.  “Come, now, ain’t you the Egg Man?”

Rasmunsen didn’t know, but supposed he was, and the man sobered down a bit.

“What d’ye expect to get for ’em?” he asked cautiously.

Rasmunsen became audacious.  “Dollar ’n a half,” he said.

“Done!” the man came back promptly.  “Gimme a dozen.”

“I—­I mean a dollar ’n a half apiece,” Rasmunsen hesitatingly explained.

“Sure.  I heard you.  Make it two dozen.  Here’s the dust.”

The man pulled out a healthy gold sack the size of a small sausage and knocked it negligently against the gee-pole.  Rasmunsen felt a strange trembling in the pit of his stomach, a tickling of the nostrils, and an almost overwhelming desire to sit down and cry.  But a curious, wide-eyed crowd was beginning to collect, and man after man was calling out for eggs.  He was without scales, but the man with the bearskin coat fetched a pair and obligingly weighed in the dust while Rasmunsen passed out the goods.  Soon there was a pushing and shoving and shouldering,