The elderly men sat up; they exchanged startled glances.

“D’you mean it?”

“I’m goin’ have dose lemon’.”

“Can’t you buy any in the saloons?”

“No.  Wal, w’at you say?”

Tom inquired of his partner, “Reckon you can get along without ’em, Jerry?”

“Why, I been savin’ ’em for you.”

“Then it’s a go!”

“One t’ing you do for me, eh?” ’Poleon hesitated momentarily.  “It’s goin’ tak’ tam for fin’ dam’ fool to he’p me row dat bateau, but—­I fin’ him.  Mebbe you set up wit’ li’l seeck gal while I’m gone.  What?” In a few words he made known the condition of affairs at his camp, and the old men agreed readily enough.  With undisguised relief they clambered stiffly out of their boat and followed the French Canadian up the trail.  As they toiled up the slope ’Poleon explained: 

“De doctor he’s go to Dawson, an’ t’ree day dis gal been layin’ seeck—­crazee in de head.  Every hour medicine, all de tam fire in de stove!  Sapre!  I’m half ’sleep.”

“We’ll set up with her as long as you want,” Tom volunteered.  “Being a family man myself, I’m a regular nurse.”

“Me, too,” Jerry exclaimed.  “I never had no family, but I allus been handy around hosses, and hosses is the same as people, only bigger—­”

Mr. Linton stifled a laugh at this remark.  “That’ll show you!” said he.  “You leave it to me, Jerry.”

“Well, ain’t they?”

“No.”

“They are, too.”

“Plumb different.”

The argument waxed hot; it had reached its height when ’Poleon laid a finger upon his lips, commanding silence.  On tiptoe he led the two men into his tent.  When he had issued instructions and left in search of a boatman the partners seated themselves awkwardly, their caps in their hands.  Curiously, apprehensively, they studied the fever-flushed face of the delirious girl.

“Purty, ain’t she?” Jerry whispered.

Tom nodded.  “She’s sick, all right, too,” he said in a similar tone; then, after a moment:  “I’ve been thinking about them lemons.  We’re getting about a hundred dollars a dozen for ’em.  Kind of a rotten trick, under the circumstances.  I’m sorry you put it up to that feller the way you did.”

Mr. Quirk stiffened, his eyes widened in astonishment.

“Me?  I didn’t put it up to him.  You done it.  They’re your lemons.”

“How d’you figure they’re mine?”

“You bought ’em, didn’t you?”

“I paid for ’em, if that’s what you mean, but I bought ’em for you, same as I bought that liquor.  You’ve et most of ’em, and you’ve drank most of the whisky.  You needed it worse than I did, Jerry, and I’ve always considered—­”

Now any reference, any reflection upon his physical limitations, however remote or indirect, aroused Jerry’s instant ire.  “At it again, ain’t you?” he cried, testily.  “I s’pose you’ll forget about that whisky in four or five years.  I hope so—­”