There was nothing unusual about this party, except its plans.  Even its goal, like that of all the other parties, was the Klondike.  But the route it had mapped out to attain that goal took away the breath of the hardiest native, born and bred to the vicissitudes of the Northwest.  Even Jacques Baptiste, born of a Chippewa woman and a renegade voyageur (having raised his first whimpers in a deerskin lodge north of the sixty-fifth parallel, and had the same hushed by blissful sucks of raw tallow), was surprised.  Though he sold his services to them and agreed to travel even to the never-opening ice, he shook his head ominously whenever his advice was asked.

Percy Cuthfert’s evil star must have been in the ascendant, for he, too, joined this company of argonauts.  He was an ordinary man, with a bank account as deep as his culture, which is saying a good deal.  He had no reason to embark on such a venture—­no reason in the world save that he suffered from an abnormal development of sentimentality.  He mistook this for the true spirit of romance and adventure.  Many another man has done the like, and made as fatal a mistake.

The first break-up of spring found the party following the ice-run of Elk River.  It was an imposing fleet, for the outfit was large, and they were accompanied by a disreputable contingent of half-breed voyageurs with their women and children.  Day in and day out, they labored with the bateaux and canoes, fought mosquitoes and other kindred pests, or sweated and swore at the portages.  Severe toil like this lays a man naked to the very roots of his soul, and ere Lake Athabasca was lost in the south, each member of the party had hoisted his true colors.

The two shirks and chronic grumblers were Carter Weatherbee and Percy Cuthfert.  The whole party complained less of its aches and pains than did either of them.  Not once did they volunteer for the thousand and one petty duties of the camp.  A bucket of water to be brought, an extra armful of wood to be chopped, the dishes to be washed and wiped, a search to be made through the outfit for some suddenly indispensable article—­and these two effete scions of civilization discovered sprains or blisters requiring instant attention.

They were the first to turn in at night, with score of tasks yet undone; the last to turn out in the morning, when the start should be in readiness before the breakfast was begun.

They were the first to fall to at mealtime, the last to have a hand in the cooking; the first to dive for a slim delicacy, the last to discover they had added to their own another man’s share.  If they toiled at the oars, they slyly cut the water at each stroke and allowed the boat’s momentum to float up the blade.  They thought nobody noticed; but their comrades swore under their breaths and grew to hate them, while Jacques Baptiste sneered openly and damned them from morning till night.  But Jacques Baptiste was no gentleman.