“Eyah!” remarked Slavin sometime later—­cuddling the bottle at the “port arms.” “‘Tis put th’ kibosh on many a good man in th’ ould Force has this same dhrink.  Th’ likes av Yorkey there”—­he jerked his head at the lighted window—­“shud never touch ut—­never touch ut! . . .  Cannot flirrt wid a bottle—­’tis wedded they wud be tu ut.  Now meself”—­he paused impressively—­“I can take me dhrink like a ginthleman—­can take ut, or lave ut alone.”

Absorptive demonstration followed.  Came a long-drawn, smacking “Ah-hh!” “A sore thrial tu me is that same man,” he resumed, “wan more break on his part, as ye have seen this night . . . an’ I musht—­I will take shteps wid um.”

“Why don’t you transfer him back to the Post?” queried George, wonderingly, mindful of how swiftly that disciplinary measure had rewarded his own reckless conduct at the Gleichen detachment.  “He’s got nothing on you, has he?”

“Fwhat?” . . .  Slavin, turning like a flash, glared sharply at him out of deep-set scowling eyes, “Fwhat?”

Tonelessly, George repeated his query,

Slavin’s glare gradually faded.  “Eyah!” he affirmed presently, “he has! . . .” came a long pause—­“but not as yu mane ut . . . oh! begorrah, no!” His eyes glittered dangerously and his wide mouth wreathed into an unholy grin, “‘Tis a shmart man that iver puts ut over on me at th’ Orderly-room. . .  Fwhy du I not sind him into th’ Post? . . . eyah! fwhy du I not? . . .”

Chin sunk on his huge chest, he mused awhile.

George waited.

“Listen, bhoy!” A terrible earnestness crept into the soft voice.  “I’ll tell ye th’ tale. . . .  ‘Twas up at th’ Chilkoot Pass—­in the gold rush av ‘98. . . .  Together we was—­Yorkey an’ meself—­stationed there undher ould Bobby Belcher.  Wan night—­Mother av God! will I iver forghet ut?  Bitther cowld is th’ Yukon, lad; th’ like av ut yu’ here in Alberta du not know.  Afther tu crazy lost cheechacos we had been that day.  We found thim—­frozen. . . .  A blizzard had shprung up, but we shtrapped th’ stiffs on th’ sled an’ mushed ut oursilves tu save th’ dogs.

“I am a big man, an’ shtrong . . . . but Yorkey was th’ betther man av us tu that night—­havin less weight tu pack.  I was all in—­dhrowsy, an’ wanted tu give up th’ ghost an’ shleep—­an’ shleep. . . .  Nigh unto death I was. . . .”

The murmuring voice died away.  A shudder ran through the great frame at the remembrance, while the hand clutching the bottle trembled violently.  Unconsciously Redmond shook with him; for the horror Slavin was living over again just then enveloped his listener also.

“But Yorkey,” he continued “wud not let me lie down. . . .  God! how that man did put his fishts an’ mucklucks tu me an’ pushed an’ shtaggered wid me’ afther th’ dogs, beggin’ an’ cursin’ an’ prayin’ an’ callin’ me names that ud fairly make th’ dead relations av a man rise up out av their graves. . . .  Light-headed he