Appleton’s enthusiastic tribute ceased suddenly, for he saw that O’Neil was once more deaf and that his eyes were fixed dreamily upon the canon far ahead.

As the current quickened the progress of the little party became slower and more exhausting.  Their destination seemed to retreat before them; the river wound back and forth in a maddening series of detours.  Some of the float ice was large now, and these pieces rushed down upon them like charging horses, keeping them constantly on the alert to prevent disaster.  It seemed impossible that such a flat country could afford so much fall.  “Happy Tom” at length suggested that they tie up and pack the remaining miles overland, but O’Neil would not hear to this.

They had slept so little, their labors had been so heavy, that they were dumb and dull with fatigue when they finally reached the first bluffs and worked their boat through a low gorge where all the waters of the Salmon thrashed and icebergs galloped past like a pallid host in flight.  Here they paused and stared with wondering eyes at what lay before; a chill, damp breath swept over them, and a mighty awe laid hold of their hearts.

“Come on!” said O’Neil.  “Other men have gone through; we’ll do the same,”

On the evening of the sixth day a splintered, battered poling-boat with its seams open swung in to the bank where O’Neil’s men were encamped, and its three occupants staggered out.  They were gaunt and stiff and heavy-eyed.  Even Tom Slater’s full cheeks hung loose and flabby.  But the leader was alert and buoyant; his face was calm, his eyes were smiling humorously.

“You’ll take the men on to the coal-fields and finish the work,” he told his boss packer later that night.  “Appleton and I will start back to Cortez in the morning.  When you have finished go to Juneau and see to the recording.”

“Ain’t that my luck?” murmured the dyspeptic.  “Me for Kyak where there ain’t a store, and my gum all wet.”

“Chew it, paper and all,” advised Appleton, cheerfully.

“Oh, the good has all gone out of it now,” Slater explained.

“Meet me in Seattle on the fifteenth of next month,” his employer directed.

“I’ll be there if old ‘Indy’ spares me.  But dyspepsia, with nothing to eat except beans and pork bosom, will probably lay me in my grave long before the fifteenth.  However, I’ll do my best.  Now, do you want to know what I think of this proposition of yours?” He eyed his superior somberly.

“Sure; I want all the encouragement I can get, and your views are always inspiriting.”

“Well, I think it’s nothing more nor less than hydrophobia.  These mosquitoes have given you the rabies and you need medical attention.  You need it bad.”

“Still, you’ll help me, won’t you?”

“Oh yes,” said Tom, “I’ll help you.  But it’s a pity to see a man go mad.”

VII