“I thought there was half-a-dollar in it,” he said.

“Not quite,” answered the other, “but near enough.  I’ll get it back with the down weight on the next comer.”

Morganson shyly poured the whisky into the glass, partly filling it.

“Go on, make it a man’s drink,” the barkeeper encouraged.

Morganson tilted the bottle and filled the glass to the brim.  He drank the liquor slowly, pleasuring in the fire of it that bit his tongue, sank hotly down his throat, and with warm, gentle caresses permeated his stomach.

“Scurvy, eh?” the barkeeper asked.

“A touch of it,” he answered.  “But I haven’t begun to swell yet.  Maybe I can get to Dyea and fresh vegetables, and beat it out.”

“Kind of all in, I’d say,” the other laughed sympathetically.  “No dogs, no money, and the scurvy.  I’d try spruce tea if I was you.”

At the end of half-an-hour, Morganson said good-bye and left the saloon.  He put his galled shoulder to the haul-rope and took the river-trail south.  An hour later he halted.  An inviting swale left the river and led off to the right at an acute angle.  He left his sled and limped up the swale for half a mile.  Between him and the river was three hundred yards of flat ground covered with cottonwoods.  He crossed the cottonwoods to the bank of the Yukon.  The trail went by just beneath, but he did not descend to it.  South toward Selkirk he could see the trail widen its sunken length through the snow for over a mile.  But to the north, in the direction of Minto, a tree-covered out-jut in the bank a quarter of a mile away screened the trail from him.

He seemed satisfied with the view and returned to the sled the way he had come.  He put the haul-rope over his shoulder and dragged the sled up the swale.  The snow was unpacked and soft, and it was hard work.  The runners clogged and stuck, and he was panting severely ere he had covered the half-mile.  Night had come on by the time he had pitched his small tent, set up the sheet-iron stove, and chopped a supply of firewood.  He had no candles, and contented himself with a pot of tea before crawling into his blankets.

In the morning, as soon as he got up, he drew on his mittens, pulled the flaps of his cap down over his ears, and crossed through the cottonwoods to the Yukon.  He took his rifle with him.  As before, he did not descend the bank.  He watched the empty trail for an hour, beating his hands and stamping his feet to keep up the circulation, then returned to the tent for breakfast.  There was little tea left in the canister—­half a dozen drawings at most; but so meagre a pinch did he put in the teapot that he bade fair to extend the lifetime of the tea indefinitely.  His entire food supply consisted of half-a-sack of flour and a part-full can of baking powder.  He made biscuits, and ate them slowly, chewing each mouthful with infinite relish.  When he had had three he called a halt.  He debated a while, reached for another biscuit, then hesitated.  He turned to the part sack of flour, lifted it, and judged its weight.