“‘I’m getting all right,’ says he, ’but poor Promont’s going to die.  I’ll get his twenty, sure!’ I turned to josh with the boy a bit, an’ when I spoke to Menard he didn’t answer.  His jaw had sagged and he’d settled in his chair.  Promont saw it, too, and cackled.  ’H’I ’ave win de bet!  H’I ‘ave win de bet!’ That’s all.  He just slid off.  Gee!  It was horrible.”

George put by his work and swore, pacing the rough pole floor.

“Oh, the cussed fools!  That makes six dead from the one cabin—­six from eighteen, an’ Promont’ll make seven to-morrow.  Do ye mind how we begged ’em to quit that dug-out an’ build a white man’s house, an’ drink spruce tea, an’ work!  They’re too ——­ lazy.  They lie around in that hole, breath bad air, an’ rot.”

“And just to think, if we only had a crate of potatoes in camp we could save every man jack of ’em.  Lord!  They never even brought no citric acid nor lime juice—­nothin’!  If we hadn’t lost our grub when the whale-boat upset, eh?  That ten-gallon keg of booze would help some.  Say!  I got such a thirst I don’t never expect to squench it proper;” he spoke plaintively.

“Klusky was here again while you was gone, too.  I itch to choke that Jew whenever he gets to ravin’ over these people.  He’s sure losin’ his paystreak.  He gritted his teeth an’ foamed like a mad malamoot, I never see a low-downer lookin’ aspect than him when he gets mad.”

“’I’ll make ’em come to me,’ says he, ‘on their bellies beggin’.  It ain’t time yet.  Oh, no!  Wait ’till half of ’em is dead, an’ the rest is rotten with scurvy.  Then they’ll crawl to me with their gums thick and black, an’ their flesh like dough; they’ll kiss my feet an’ cry, an’ I’ll stamp ’em into the snow!’ You’d ought a heard him laugh.  Some day I’m goin’ to lay a hand on that man, right in my own house.”

As they prepared for bed.  Captain remarked: 

“By the way, speaking of potatoes, I heard to-night that there was a crate in the Frenchmen’s outfit somewhere, put in by mistake. perhaps, but when they boated their stuff up river last fall it couldn’t be found—­must have been lost.”

It was some days later that, returning from a gameless hunt, Captain staggered into camp, weary from the drag of his snow-shoes.

Throwing himself into his bunk he rested while George prepared the meagre meal of brown beans, fried salt pork, and sour-dough bread.  The excellence of this last, due to the whaler’s years of practice, did much to mitigate the unpleasantness of the milkless, butterless, sugarless menu.

Captain’s fatigue prevented notice of the other’s bearing.  However, when he had supped and the dishes were done George spoke, quietly and without emotion.

“Well, boy, the big thing has come off.”

“What do you mean?”

For reply he took the grease dip and, holding it close, bared his teeth.