“And why not?  It is a custom of the sea to broach the spirits as the ship prepares to sink.  And since this is a sort of a forlorn hope, you know, why not?”

“But . . .”

“But what, Miss Prim?”

“Oh!  Of all things, you know I do not deserve that!  If there were nobody else to be considered, why, under the circumstances . . .”

He drew the last knot tight and dropped her foot.  “Damn St. Vincent, anyway!  Come on!”

“So would I, were I you,” she laughed, taking up her end of the canoe.  “But how you have changed, Vance.  You are not the same man I met on the Dyea Trail.  You hadn’t learned to swear, then, among other things.”

“No, I’m not the same; for which I thank God and you.  Only I think I am honester than you.  I always live up to my philosophy.”

“Now confess that’s unfair.  You ask too much under the circumstances—­”

“Only a little toe.”

“Or else, I suppose, you just care for me in a kind, big-brotherly way.  In which case, if you really wish it, you may—­”

“Do keep quiet,” he broke in, roughly, “or I’ll be making a gorgeous fool of myself.”

“Kiss all my toes,” she finished.

He grunted, but did not deign a reply.  The work quickly took their breath, and they went on in silence till they descended the last steep to where McPherson waited by the open river.

“Del hates St. Vincent,” she said boldly.  “Why?”

“Yes, it seems that way.”  He glanced back at her curiously.  “And wherever he goes, Del lugs an old Russian book, which he can’t read but which he nevertheless regards, in some sort of way, as St. Vincent’s Nemesis.  And do you know, Frona, he has such faith in it that I can’t help catching a little myself.  I don’t know whether you’ll come to me, or whether I’ll go to you, but—­”

She dropped her end of the canoe and broke out in laughter.  He was annoyed, and a hurt spread of blood ruddied his face.

“If I have—­” he began.

“Stupid!” she laughed.  “Don’t be silly!  And above all don’t be dignified.  It doesn’t exactly become you at the present moment,—­your hair all tangled, a murderous knife in your belt, and naked to the waist like a pirate stripped for battle.  Be fierce, frown, swear, anything, but please don’t be dignified.  I do wish I had my camera.  In after years I could say:  ’This, my friends, is Corliss, the great Arctic explorer, just as he looked at the conclusion of his world-famous trip Through Darkest Alaska.’”

He pointed an ominous finger at her and said sternly, “Where is your skirt?”

She involuntarily looked down.  But its tatterdemalion presence relieved her, and her face jerked up scarlet.

“You should be ashamed!”

“Please, please do not be dignified,” he laughed.  “Very true, it doesn’t exactly become you at the present moment.  Now, if I had my camera—­”