“Well, sir, pretty soon they begun to pass us, driftin’ down the river in canoes an’ rafts.  They was pullin’ out.  We kept track of them.  When a hundred an’ ninety-four had passed, we didn’t see no reason for keepin’ on.  So we turned tail and started down.  A cold snap had come, an’ the water was fallin’ fast, an’ dang me if we didn’t ground on a bar—­up-stream side.  The Blatterbat hung up solid.  Couldn’t budge her.  ‘It’s a shame to waste all that grub,’ says I, just as we was pullin’ out in a canoe.  ‘Let’s stay an’ eat it,’ says he.  An’ dang me if we didn’t.  We wintered right there on the Blatterbat, huntin’ and tradin’ with the Indians, an’ when the river broke next year we brung down eight thousand dollars’ worth of skins.  Now a whole winter, just two of us, is goin’ some.  But never a cross word out of him.  Best-tempered pardner I ever seen.  But fight!”

“Huh!” came the other voice.  “I remember the winter Oily Jones allowed he’d clean out Forty Mile.  Only he didn’t, for about the second yap he let off he ran afoul of Husky Travers.  It was in the White Caribou.  ’I’m a wolf!’ yaps Jones.  You know his style, a gun in his belt, fringes on his moccasins, and long hair down his back.  ‘I’m a wolf,’ he yaps, ‘an’ this is my night to howl.  Hear me, you long lean makeshift of a human critter?’—­an’ this to Husky Travers.”

“Well?” the other voice queried, after a pause.

“In about a second an’ a half Oily Jones was on the floor an’ Husky on top askin’ somebody kindly to pass him a butcher knife.  What’s he do but plumb hack off all of Oily Jones’ long hair.  ‘Now howl, damn you, howl,’ says Husky, gettin’ up.”

“He was a cool one, for a wild one,” the first voice took up.  “I seen him buck roulette in the Little Wolverine, drop nine thousand in two hours, borrow some more, win it back in fifteen minutes, buy the drinks, an’ cash in—­dang me, all in fifteen minutes.”

One evening Tom was unusually brightly awake, and Frederick, joining the rapt young circle, sat and listened to his brother’s serio-comic narrative of the night of wreck on the island of Blang; of the swim through the sharks where half the crew was lost; of the great pearl which Desay brought ashore with him; of the head-decorated palisade that surrounded the grass palace wherein dwelt the Malay queen with her royal consort, a shipwrecked Chinese Eurasian; of the intrigue for the pearl of Desay; of mad feasts and dances in the barbaric night, and quick dangers and sudden deaths; of the queen’s love-making to Desay, of Desay’s love-making to the queen’s daughter, and of Desay, every joint crushed, still alive, staked out on the reef at low tide to be eaten by the sharks; of the coming of the plague; of the beating of tom-toms and the exorcising of the devil-devil doctors; of the flight over the man-trapped, wild-pig runs of the mountain bush-men; and of the final rescue by Tasman, he who was hatcheted only last year and whose head reposed in some Melanesian stronghold—­and all breathing of the warmth and abandon and savagery of the burning islands of the sun.