‘But it’s meself as wandthers.  As I was sayin’, we a-paddlin’, with niver a sign of ice, barrin’ that by the eddies, when the Injun lifts his paddle an’ sings out, “Lon McFane!  Look ye below!” So have I heard, but niver thought to see!  As ye know, Sitka Charley, like meself, niver drew first breath in the land; so the sight was new.  Then we drifted, with a head over ayther side, peerin’ down through the sparkly water.  For the world like the days I spint with the pearlers, watchin’ the coral banks a-growin’ the same as so many gardens under the sea.  There it was, the anchor-ice, clingin’ an’ clusterin’ to ivery rock, after the manner of the white coral.

‘But the best of the sight was to come.  Just after clearin’ the tail of the riffle, the water turns quick the color of milk, an’ the top of it in wee circles, as when the graylin’ rise in the spring, or there’s a splatter of wet from the sky.  ’Twas the anchor-ice comin’ up.  To the right, to the lift, as far as iver a man cud see, the water was covered with the same.

An’ like so much porridge it was, slickin’ along the bark of the canoe, stickin’ like glue to the paddles.  It’s many’s the time I shot the self-same riffle before, and it’s many’s the time after, but niver a wink of the same have I seen.  ’Twas the sight of a lifetime.’  ‘Do tell!’ dryly commented Bettles.  ’D’ye think I’d b’lieve such a yarn?  I’d ruther say the glister of light’d gone to your eyes, and the snap of the air to your tongue.’ ’’Twas me own eyes that beheld it, an’ if Sitka Charley was here, he’d be the lad to back me.’  ‘But facts is facts, an’ they ain’t no gettin’ round ’em.  It ain’t in the nature of things for the water furtherest away from the air to freeze first.’  ‘But me own eyes-’ ‘Don’t git het up over it,’ admonished Bettles, as the quick Celtic anger began to mount.

‘Then yer not after belavin’ me?’ ’Sence you’re so blamed forehanded about it, no; I’d b’lieve nature first, and facts.’

‘Is it the lie ye’d be givin’ me?’ threatened Lon.  ’Ye’d better be askin’ that Siwash wife of yours.  I’ll lave it to her, for the truth I spake.’  Bettles flared up in sudden wrath.  The Irishman had unwittingly wounded him; for his wife was the half-breed daughter of a Russian fur-trader, married to him in the Greek Mission of Nulato, a thousand miles or so down the Yukon, thus being of much higher caste than the common Siwash, or native, wife.  It was a mere Northland nuance, which none but the Northland adventurer may understand.

‘I reckon you kin take it that way,’ was his deliberate affirmation.

The next instant Lon McFane had stretched him on the floor, the circle was broken up, and half a dozen men had stepped between.

Bettles came to his feet, wiping the blood from his mouth.  ’It hain’t new, this takin’ and payin’ of blows, and don’t you never think but that this will be squared.’  ‘An’ niver in me life did I take the lie from mortal man,’ was the retort courteous.  ‘An’ it’s an avil day I’ll not be to hand, waitin’ an’ willin’ to help ye lift yer debts, barrin’ no manner of way.’