“Yes,” Dick admitted, “she’s too ambitious.  But then Molly’s all right.  A cussed little fool to tackle a trip like this, but a plucky sight better than those pick-me-up-and-carry-me kind of women.  She’s the stock that carried you and me, Tommy, and you’ve got to make allowance for the spirit.  Takes a woman to breed a man.  You can’t suck manhood from the dugs of a creature whose only claim to womanhood is her petticoats.  Takes a she-cat, not a cow, to mother a tiger.”

“And when they’re unreasonable we’ve got to put up with it, eh?”

“The proposition.  A sharp sheath-knife cuts deeper on a slip than a dull one; but that’s no reason for to hack the edge off over a capstan bar.”

“All right, if you say so, but when it comes to woman, I guess I’ll take mine with a little less edge.”

“What do you know about it?” Dick demanded.

“Some.”  Tommy reached over for a pair of Molly’s wet stockings and stretched them across his knees to dry.

Dick, eying him querulously, went fishing in her hand satchel, then hitched up to the front of the stove with divers articles of damp clothing spread likewise to the heat.

“Thought you said you never were married?” he asked.

“Did I?  No more was I—­that is—­yes, by Gawd!  I was.  And as good a woman as ever cooked grub for a man.”

“Slipped her moorings?” Dick symbolized infinity with a wave of his hand.

“Ay.”

“Childbirth,” he added, after a moment’s pause.

The beans bubbled rowdily on the front lid, and he pushed the pot back to a cooler surface.  After that he investigated the biscuits, tested them with a splinter of wood, and placed them aside under cover of a damp cloth.  Dick, after the manner of his kind, stifled his interest and waited silently.  “A different woman to Molly.  Siwash.”

Dick nodded his understanding.

“Not so proud and wilful, but stick by a fellow through thick and thin.  Sling a paddle with the next and starve as contentedly as Job.  Go for’ard when the sloop’s nose was more often under than not, and take in sail like a man.  Went prospecting once, up Teslin way, past Surprise Lake and the Little Yellow-Head.  Grub gave out, and we ate the dogs.  Dogs gave out, and we ate harnesses, moccasins, and furs.  Never a whimper; never a pick-me-up-and-carry-me.  Before we went she said look out for grub, but when it happened, never a I-told-you-so.  ’Never mind, Tommy,’ she’d say, day after day, that weak she could bare lift a snow-shoe and her feet raw with the work.  ’Never mind.  I’d sooner be flat-bellied of hunger and be your woman, Tommy, than have a potlach every day and be Chief George’s klooch.’  George was chief of the Chilcoots, you know, and wanted her bad.

“Great days, those.  Was a likely chap myself when I struck the coast.  Jumped a whaler, the Pole Star, at Unalaska, and worked my way down to Sitka on an otter hunter.  Picked up with Happy Jack there—­know him?”