A mile portage connected Lake Bennett and Lake Linderman, and his last words he flung back after him as he resumed the trot.  It was a very painful trot, but he clenched his teeth and kept on, forgetting his pain most of the time in the fervent heat with which he regarded the gripsack.  It was a severe handicap.  He swung it from one hand to the other, and back again.  He tucked it under his arm.  He threw one hand over the opposite shoulder, and the bag bumped and pounded on his back as he ran along.  He could scarcely hold it in his bruised and swollen fingers, and several times he dropped it.  Once, in changing from one hand to the other, it escaped his clutch and fell in front of him, tripped him up, and threw him violently to the ground.

At the far end of the portage he bought an old set of pack-straps for a dollar, and in them he swung the grip.  Also, he chartered a launch to run him the six miles to the upper end of Lake Linderman, where he arrived at four in the afternoon.  The Athenian was to sail from Dyea next morning at seven.  Dyea was twenty-eight miles away, and between towered Chilcoot.  He sat down to adjust his foot-gear for the long climb, and woke up.  He had dozed the instant he sat down, though he had not slept thirty seconds.  He was afraid his next doze might be longer, so he finished fixing his foot-gear standing up.  Even then he was overpowered for a fleeting moment.  He experienced the flash of unconsciousness; becoming aware of it, in midair, as his relaxed body was sinking to the ground and as he caught himself together, he stiffened his muscles with a spasmodic wrench, and escaped the fall.  The sudden jerk back to consciousness left him sick and trembling.  He beat his head with the heel of his hand, knocking wakefulness into the numb brain.

Jack Burns’s pack-train was starting back light for Crater Lake, and Churchill was invited to a mule.  Burns wanted to put the gripsack on another animal, but Churchill held on to it, carrying it on his saddle-pommel.  But he dozed, and the grip persisted in dropping off the pommel, one side or the other, each time wakening him with a sickening start.  Then, in the early darkness, Churchill’s mule brushed him against a projecting branch that laid his cheek open.  To cap it, the mule blundered off the trail and fell, throwing rider and gripsack out upon the rocks.  After that, Churchill walked, or stumbled, rather, over the apology for a trail, leading the mule.  Stray and awful odors, drifting from each side the trail, told of the horses that had died in the rush for gold.  But he did not mind.  He was too sleepy.  By the time Long Lake was reached, however, he had recovered from his sleepiness; and at Deep Lake he resigned the gripsack to Burns.  But thereafter, by the light of the dim stars, he kept his eyes on Burns.  There were not going to be any accidents with that bag.