“I will not deny that the drink is good to this old throat of mine,” Porportuk made answer, and hesitated for the speech to complete the thought.

“But it costs overmuch,” Klakee-Nah roared, completing it for him.

Porportuk winced at the laughter that went down the table.  His eyes burned malevolently.  “We were boys together, of the same age,” he said.  “In your throat is death.  I am still alive and strong.”

An ominous murmur arose from the company.  Klakee-Nah coughed and strangled, and the old slaves smote him between the shoulders.  He emerged gasping, and waved his hand to still the threatening rumble.

“You have grudged the very fire in your house because the wood cost overmuch!” he cried.  “You have grudged life.  To live cost overmuch, and you have refused to pay the price.  Your life has been like a cabin where the fire is out and there are no blankets on the floor.”  He signalled to a slave to fill his glass, which he held aloft.  “But I have lived.  And I have been warm with life as you have never been warm.  It is true, you shall live long.  But the longest nights are the cold nights when a man shivers and lies awake.  My nights have been short, but I have slept warm.”

He drained the glass.  The shaking hand of a slave failed to catch it as it crashed to the floor.  Klakee-Nah sank back, panting, watching the upturned glasses at the lips of the drinkers, his own lips slightly smiling to the applause.  At a sign, two slaves attempted to help him sit upright again.  But they were weak, his frame was mighty, and the four old men tottered and shook as they helped him forward.

“But manner of life is neither here nor there,” he went on.  “We have other business, Porportuk, you and I, to-night.  Debts are mischances, and I am in mischance with you.  What of my debt, and how great is it?”

Porportuk searched in his pouch and brought forth a memorandum.  He sipped at his glass and began.  “There is the note of August, 1889, for three hundred dollars.  The interest has never been paid.  And the note of the next year for five hundred dollars.  This note was included in the note of two months later for a thousand dollars.  Then there is the note—­”

“Never mind the many notes!” Klakee-Nah cried out impatiently.  “They make my head go around and all the things inside my head.  The whole!  The round whole!  How much is it?”

Porportuk referred to his memorandum.  “Fifteen thousand nine hundred and sixty-seven dollars and seventy-five cents,” he read with careful precision.

“Make it sixteen thousand, make it sixteen thousand,” Klakee-Nah said grandly.  “Odd numbers were ever a worry.  And now—­and it is for this that I have sent for you—­make me out a new note for sixteen thousand, which I shall sign.  I have no thought of the interest.  Make it as large as you will, and make it payable in the next world, when I shall meet you by the fire of the Great Father of all Indians.  Then the note will be paid.  This I promise you.  It is the word of Klakee-Nah.”