With a cry Captain leaped from his bunk, and took his face between his hands.

“Great God!  George!”

He pushed back the lips.  Livid blotches met his gaze—­the gums swollen and discoloured.  He dropped back sick and pale, staring at his bulky comrade, dazed and uncomprehending.

Carefully replacing the lamp, George continued: 

“I felt it comin’ quite a while back, pains in my knees an’ all that—­thought mebbe you’d notice me hobblin’ about.  I can’t git around good—­feel sort of stove up an’ spavined on my feet.”

“Yes, yes, but we’ve lived clean, and exercised, and drank spruce tea, and—­everything,” cried the other.

“I know, but I’ve had a touch before; it’s in my blood I reckon.  Too much salt grub; too many winters on the coast.  She never took me so sudden an’ vicious though.  Guess the stuff’s off.”

“Don’t talk that way,” said Captain, sharply.  “You’re not going to die—­I won’t let you.”

“Vat’s the mattaire?” came a leering voice and, turning they beheld Klusky, the renegade.  He had entered silently, as usual, and now darted shrewd inquiring glances at them.

“George has the scurvy.”

“Oi!  Oi!  Oi!  Vat a peety.”  He seemed about to say more but refrained, coming forward rubbing his hands nervously.

“It ain’t possible that a ‘sour dough’ shall have the scoivy.”

“Well, he has it—­has it bad but I’ll cure him.  Yes, and I’ll save this whole ——­ camp, whether they want it or not.”  Captain spoke strongly, his jaws set with determination.  Klusky regarded him narrowly through close shrunk eyes, while speculation wrinkled his low forehead.

“Of course!  Yes!  But how shall it be, eh?  Tell me that.”  His eagerness was pronounced.

“I’ll go to St. Michaels and bring back fresh grub.”

“You can’t do it, boy,” said George.  “It’s too far an’ there ain’t a dog in camp.  You couldn’t haul your outfit alone, an’ long before you’d sledded grub back I’d be wearin’ one of them gleamin’ orioles, I believe that’s what they call it, on my head, like the pictures of them little fat angelettes.  I ain’t got no ear for music, so I’ll have to cut out the harp solos.”

“Quit that talk, will you?” said Captain irritably.  “Of course, one man can’t haul an outfit that far, but two can, so I’m going to take Klusky with me.”  He spoke with finality, and the Jew started, gazing queerly.  “We’ll go light, and drive back a herd of reindeer.”

“By thunder!  I’d clean forgot the reindeer.  The government was aimin’ to start a post there last fall, wasn’t it?  Say!  Mebbe you can make it after all, Kid.”  His features brightened hopefully.  “What d’ ye say, Klusky?”

The one addressed answered nervously, almost with excitement.

“It can’t be done!  It ain’t possible, and I ain’t strong enough to pull the sled.  V’y don’t you and George go together.  I’ll stay—­”