“And the man became worthless.  The dogs had little strength in them, but he stole rides on the sled when he lagged behind.  Passuk said she would take the one sled, so the man had nothing to do.  In the morning I gave him his fair share of grub and started him on the trail alone.  Then the woman and I broke camp, packed the sleds, and harnessed the dogs.  By midday, when the sun mocked us, we would overtake the man, with the tears frozen on his cheeks, and pass him.  In the night we made camp, set aside his fair share of grub, and spread his furs.  Also we made a big fire, that he might see.  And hours afterward he would come limping in, and eat his grub with moans and groans, and sleep.  He was not sick, this man.  He was only trail-sore and tired, and weak with hunger.  But Passuk and I were trail-sore and tired, and weak with hunger; and we did all the work and he did none.  But he had the streak of fat of which our brother Bettles has spoken.  Further, we gave the man always his fair share of grub.

“Then one day we met two ghosts journeying through the Silence.  They were a man and a boy, and they were white.  The ice had opened on Lake Le Barge, and through it had gone their main outfit.  One blanket each carried about his shoulders.  At night they built a fire and crouched over it till morning.  They had a little flour.  This they stirred in warm water and drank.  The man showed me eight cups of flour—­all they had, and Pelly, stricken with famine, two hundred miles away.  They said, also, that there was an Indian behind; that they had whacked fair, but that he could not keep up.  I did not believe they had whacked fair, else would the Indian have kept up.  But I could give them no grub.  They strove to steal a dog—­the fattest, which was very thin—­but I shoved my pistol in their faces and told them begone.  And they went away, like drunken men, through the Silence toward Pelly.

“I had three dogs now, and one sled, and the dogs were only bones and hair.  When there is little wood, the fire burns low and the cabin grows cold.  So with us.  With little grub the frost bites sharp, and our faces were black and frozen till our own mothers would not have known us.  And our feet were very sore.  In the morning, when I hit the trail, I sweated to keep down the cry when the pain of the snowshoes smote me.  Passuk never opened her lips, but stepped to the fore to break the way.  The man howled.

“The Thirty Mile was swift, and the current ate away the ice from beneath, and there were many air-holes and cracks, and much open water.  One day we came upon the man, resting, for he had gone ahead, as was his wont, in the morning.  But between us was open water.  This he had passed around by taking to the rim-ice where it was too narrow for a sled.  So we found an ice-bridge.  Passuk weighed little, and went first, with a long pole crosswise in her hands in chance she broke through.  But she was light, and her shoes large, and she passed over.  Then she called the dogs.  But they had neither poles nor shoes, and they broke through and were swept under by the water.  I held tight to the sled from behind, till the traces broke and the dogs went on down under the ice.  There was little meat to them, but I had counted on them for a week’s grub, and they were gone.