One problem bothered him.  He had learned that he could fall with a hundred-weight on his back and survive; but he was confident, if he fell with that additional fifty pounds across the back of his neck, that it would break it clean.  Each trail through the swamp was quickly churned bottomless by the thousands of packers, who were compelled continually to make new trails.  It was while pioneering such a new trail, that he solved the problem of the extra fifty.

The soft, lush surface gave way under him; he floundered, and pitched forward on his face.  The fifty pounds crushed his face in the mud and went clear without snapping his neck.  With the remaining hundred pounds on his back, he arose on hands and knees.  But he got no farther.  One arm sank to the shoulder, pillowing his cheek in the slush.  As he drew this arm clear, the other sank to the shoulder.  In this position it was impossible to slip the straps, and the hundred-weight on his back would not let him rise.  On hands and knees, sinking first one arm and then the other, he made an effort to crawl to where the small sack of flour had fallen.  But he exhausted himself without advancing, and so churned and broke the grass surface, that a tiny pool of water began to form in perilous proximity to his mouth and nose.

He tried to throw himself on his back with the pack underneath, but this resulted in sinking both arms to the shoulders and gave him a foretaste of drowning.  With exquisite patience, he slowly withdrew one sucking arm and then the other and rested them flat on the surface for the support of his chin.  Then he began to call for help.  After a time he heard the sound of feet sucking through the mud as some one advanced from behind.

“Lend a hand, friend,” he said.  “Throw out a life-line or something.”

It was a woman’s voice that answered, and he recognized it.

“If you’ll unbuckle the straps I can get up.”

The hundred pounds rolled into the mud with a soggy noise, and he slowly gained his feet.

“A pretty predicament,” Miss Gastell laughed, at sight of his mud-covered face.

“Not at all,” he replied airily.  “My favourite physical-exercise stunt.  Try it some time.  It’s great for the pectoral muscles and the spine.”

He wiped his face, flinging the slush from his hand with a snappy jerk.

“Oh!” she cried in recognition.  “It’s Mr.—­ah—­Mr. Smoke Bellew.”

“I thank you gravely for your timely rescue and for that name,” he answered.  “I have been doubly baptized.  Henceforth I shall insist always on being called Smoke Bellew.  It is a strong name, and not without significance.”

He paused, and then voice and expression became suddenly fierce.

“Do you know what I’m going to do?” he demanded.  “I’m going back to the States.  I am going to get married.  I am going to raise a large family of children.  And then, as the evening shadows fall, I shall gather those children about me and relate the sufferings and hardships I endured on the Chilkoot Trail.  And if they don’t cry—­I repeat, if they don’t cry, I’ll lambaste the stuffing out of them.”