Then Malemute Kid arose, cup in hand, and glanced at the greased-paper window, where the frost stood full three inches thick.  ’A health to the man on trail this night; may his grub hold out; may his dogs keep their legs; may his matches never miss fire.’  Crack!

Crack! heard the familiar music of the dog whip, the whining howl of the Malemutes, and the crunch of a sled as it drew up to the cabin.  Conversation languished while they waited the issue.

‘An old-timer; cares for his dogs and then himself,’ whispered Malemute Kid to Prince as they listened to the snapping jaws and the wolfish snarls and yelps of pain which proclaimed to their practiced ears that the stranger was beating back their dogs while he fed his own.

Then came the expected knock, sharp and confident, and the stranger entered.

Dazzled by the light, he hesitated a moment at the door, giving to all a chance for scrutiny.  He was a striking personage, and a most picturesque one, in his Arctic dress of wool and fur.  Standing six foot two or three, with proportionate breadth of shoulders and depth of chest, his smooth-shaven face nipped by the cold to a gleaming pink, his long lashes and eyebrows white with ice, and the ear and neck flaps of his great wolfskin cap loosely raised, he seemed, of a verity, the Frost King, just stepped in out of the night.

Clasped outside his Mackinaw jacket, a beaded belt held two large Colt’s revolvers and a hunting knife, while he carried, in addition to the inevitable dog whip, a smokeless rifle of the largest bore and latest pattern.  As he came forward, for all his step was firm and elastic, they could see that fatigue bore heavily upon him.

An awkward silence had fallen, but his hearty ’What cheer, my lads?’ put them quickly at ease, and the next instant Malemute Kid and he had gripped hands.  Though they had never met, each had heard of the other, and the recognition was mutual.  A sweeping introduction and a mug of punch were forced upon him before he could explain his errand.

How long since that basket sled, with three men and eight dogs, passed?’ he asked.

‘An even two days ahead.  Are you after them?’ ’Yes; my team.  Run them off under my very nose, the cusses.  I’ve gained two days on them already—­pick them up on the next run.’  ’Reckon they’ll show spunk?’ asked Belden, in order to keep up the conversation, for Malemute Kid already had the coffeepot on and was busily frying bacon and moose meat.

The stranger significantly tapped his revolvers.

‘When’d yeh leave Dawson?’ ‘Twelve o’clock.’  ’Last night?’—­as a matter of course.

‘Today.’  A murmur of surprise passed round the circle.  And well it might; for it was just midnight, and seventy-five miles of rough river trail was not to be sneered at for a twelve hours’ run.

The talk soon became impersonal, however, harking back to the trails of childhood.  As the young stranger ate of the rude fare Malemute Kid attentively studied his face.  Nor was he long in deciding that it was fair, honest, and open, and that he liked it.  Still youthful, the lines had been firmly traced by toil and hardship.