Then, suddenly, he—­for it was a man—­swayed back, with a hitch to his skin trousers, and began to sing a chantey, such as men lift when they swing around the capstan circle and the sea snorts in their ears:  Yan-kee ship come down de ri-ib-er, Pull! my bully boys!  Pull!  D’yeh want—­to know de captain ru-uns her?  Pull! my bully boys!  Pull!  Jon-a-than Jones ob South Caho-li-in-a, Pull! my bully.  He broke off abruptly, tottered with a wolfish snarl to the meat shelf, and before they could intercept was tearing with his teeth at a chunk of raw bacon.  The struggle was fierce between him and Malemute Kid; but his mad strength left him as suddenly as it had come, and he weakly surrendered the spoil.  Between them they got him upon a stool, where he sprawled with half his body across the table.

A small dose of whiskey strengthened him, so that he could dip a spoon into the sugar caddy which Malemute Kid placed before him.  After his appetite had been somewhat cloyed, Prince, shuddering as he did so, passed him a mug of weak beef tea.

The creature’s eyes were alight with a somber frenzy, which blazed and waned with every mouthful.  There was very little skin to the face.  The face, for that matter, sunken and emaciated, bore little likeness to human countenance.

Frost after frost had bitten deeply, each depositing its stratum of scab upon the half-healed scar that went before.  This dry, hard surface was of a bloody-black color, serrated by grievous cracks wherein the raw red flesh peeped forth.  His skin garments were dirty and in tatters, and the fur of one side was singed and burned away, showing where he had lain upon his fire.

Malemute Kid pointed to where the sun-tanned hide had been cut away, strip by strip—­the grim signature of famine.

‘Who—­are—­you?’ slowly and distinctly enunciated the Kid.

The man paid no heed.

‘Where do you come from?’ ‘Yan-kee ship come down de ri-ib-er,’ was the quavering response.

‘Don’t doubt the beggar came down the river,’ the Kid said, shaking him in an endeavor to start a more lucid flow of talk.

But the man shrieked at the contact, clapping a hand to his side in evident pain.  He rose slowly to his feet, half leaning on the table.

’She laughed at me—­so—­with the hate in her eye; and she—­would—­not—­come.’  His voice died away, and he was sinking back when Malemute Kid gripped him by the wrist and shouted, ‘Who?  Who would not come?’ ’She, Unga.  She laughed, and struck at me, so, and so.  And then-’ ‘Yes?’

‘And then—­’ ‘And then what?’ ’And then he lay very still in the snow a long time.  He is-still in—­the—­snow.’  The two men looked at each other helplessly.

‘Who is in the snow?’ ’She, Unga.  She looked at me with the hate in her eye, and then—­’

‘Yes, yes.’  ’And then she took the knife, so; and once, twice—­she was weak.  I traveled very slow.  And there is much gold in that place, very much gold.’  ‘Where is Unga?’ For all Malemute Kid knew, she might be dying a mile away.  He shook the man savagely, repeating again and again, ’Where is Unga?  Who is Unga?’ ‘She—­is—­in—­the—­snow.’  ‘Go on!’ The Kid was pressing his wrist cruelly.