And Blake added, “We’ve sold every fur and every pound of bone and oil, and we’ve forty Upisk wives to our credit at fifty dollars apiece.”

Uppy’s grin became larger, and his throat was filled with an exultant rattle.  In the matter of the Upisk wives he knew that he stood ace-high.

“Never,” said Blake, “has our wife-by-the-month business been so good.  If it wasn’t for Captain Rydal and his love-affair, we’d take a vacation and go hunting.”

He turned, facing the Eskimo, and the yellow flame of the lamp lit up his face.  It was the face of a remarkable man.  A black beard concealed much of its cruelty and its cunning, a beard as carefully Van-dycked as though Blake sat in a professional chair two thousand miles south, but the beard could not hide the almost inhuman hardness of the eyes.  There was a glittering light in them as he looked at the Eskimo.  “Did you see her today, Uppy?  Of course you did.  My Gawd, if a woman could ever tempt me, she could!  And Rydal is going to have her.  Unless I miss my guess, there’s going to be money in it for us—­a lot of it.  The funny part of it is, Rydal’s got to get rid of her husband.  And how’s he going to do it, Uppy?  Eh?  Answer me that.  How’s he going to do it?”

In a hole he had dug for himself in the drifted snow under a huge scarp of ice a hundred yards from the igloo cabin lay Wapi.  His bed was red with the stain of blood, and a trail of blood led from the cabin to the place where he had hidden himself.  Not many hours ago, when by God’s sun it should have been day, he had turned at last on a teasing, snarling, back-biting little kiskanuk of a dog and had killed it.  And Blake and Uppy had beaten him until he was almost dead.

It was not of the beating that Wapi was thinking as he lay in his wallow.  He was thinking of the fur-clad figure that had come between Blake’s club and his body, of the moment when for the first time in his life he had seen the face of a white woman.  She had stopped Blake’s club.  He had heard her voice.  She had bent over him, and she would have put her hand on him if his master had not dragged her back with a cry of warning.  She had gone into the cabin then, and he had dragged himself away.

Since then a new and thrilling flame had burned in him.  For a time his senses had been dazed by his punishment, but now every instinct in him was like a living wire.  Slowly he pulled himself from his retreat and sat down on his haunches.  His gray muzzle was pointed to the sky.  The same stars were there, burning in cold, white points of flame as they had burned week after week in the maddening monotony of the long nights near the pole.  They were like a million pitiless eyes, never blinking, always watching, things of life and fire, and yet dead.  And at those eyes, the little white foxes yapped so incessantly that the sound of it drove men mad.  They were yapping now.  They were never still.  And with their yapping came the droning,