“Vat’s the mattaire?  Vy do you make like that, eh?  Tell me.”  His voice was sharp.

“You’ve got it.”

“I’ve got it?  Oi!  Oi!  I’ve got it!  Vat have I got?” He knew before the answer came, but raved and cursed in frenzied denial.  His tongue started, language flowed from him freely.

“It ain’t that.  No!  No!  It is the rheumatissen.  Yes, it shall be so.  It makes like that from the hard vork always.  It is the cold—­the cold makes it like.”

With despair Captain realized that he could neither go on, dragging the sick man and outfit, nor could he stay here in idleness to sacrifice the precious days that remained to his partner.  Each one he lost might mean life or death.

Klusky broke in upon him.

“You von’t leave me, Mistaire Captain?  Please you von’t go avay?”

Such frightened entreaty lay in his request that before thinking the other replied.

“No, I won’t.  I made you come and I’ll do all I can for you.  Maybe somebody will pass.”  He said it only to cheer, for no one travelled this miserable stretch save scattering, half-starved Indians, but the patient caught at it eagerly, hugging the hope to his breast during the ensuing days.

That vigil beside the dying creature lived long in Captain’s memory.  The bleak, timberless shores of the bay; their tiny tent, crouched fearfully among the willow tops; the silent nights, when in the clear, cold air the stars stared at him close and big, like eyes of wolves beyond a camp fire; the days of endless gabblings from the sinking man, and the all pervading cold.

At last, knowledge dawned upon the invalid, and he called his companion to his side.  Shivering there beneath the thin tent, Captain heard a story, rambling at first, filled with hatred and bitterness toward the men who had scoffed at him, yet at the last he listened eagerly, amazedly, and upon its conclusion rose suddenly, gazing at the dying man in horror.

“My God, Klusky!  Hell isn’t black enough for you.  It can’t be true, it can’t be.  You’re raving!  Do you mean to say that you let those poor devils die like rats while you had potatoes in your cabin, fresh ones?  Man!  Man!  The juice of every potato was worth a life.  You’re lying, Klusky.”

“I ain’t.  No, I ain’t.  I hate them!  I said they should crawl on their bellies to me.  Yes, and I should wring the money out.  A hundred dollars for von potato.  I stole them all.  Ha! ha! and I kept them varm.  Oh, yes!  Alvays varm by the fire, so they shall be good and fine for the day.”

“That’s why you left the Indian there when we came away, eh?  To keep a fire.”

“Shoor! and I thought I shall kill you and go back alone so nobody shall make for the rescue.  Then I should have the great laugh.”

Captain bared his head to the cold outside the tent.  He was dazed by the thought of it.  The man was crazed by abuse.  The camp had paid for its folly!