But John Bellew was dazed, and could only mutter:  “I don’t understand.”

“They say the baldface grizzlies are thick in the Yukon Basin,” Kit explained.  “Well, I’ve got only one suit of underclothes, and I’m going after the bear-meat, that’s all.”

II.  THE MEAT

Half the time the wind blew a gale, and Smoke Bellew staggered against it along the beach.  In the gray of dawn a dozen boats were being loaded with the precious outfits packed across Chilkoot.  They were clumsy, home-made boats, put together by men who were not boat-builders, out of planks they had sawed by hand from green spruce-trees.  One boat, already loaded, was just starting, and Kit paused to watch.

The wind, which was fair down the lake, here blew in squarely on the beach, kicking up a nasty sea in the shallows.  The men of the departing boat waded in high rubber boots as they shoved it out toward deeper water.  Twice they did this.  Clambering aboard and failing to row clear, the boat was swept back and grounded.  Kit noticed that the spray on the sides of the boat quickly turned to ice.  The third attempt was a partial success.  The last two men to climb in were wet to their waists, but the boat was afloat.  They struggled awkwardly at the heavy oars, and slowly worked off shore.  Then they hoisted a sail made of blankets, had it carry away in a gust, and were swept a third time back on the freezing beach.

Kit grinned to himself and went on.  This was what he must expect to encounter, for he, too, in his new role of gentleman’s man, was to start from the beach in a similar boat that very day.

Everywhere men were at work, and at work desperately, for the closing down of winter was so imminent that it was a gamble whether or not they would get across the great chain of lakes before the freeze-up.  Yet, when Kit arrived at the tent of Messrs. Sprague and Stine, he did not find them stirring.

By a fire, under the shelter of a tarpaulin, squatted a short, thick man smoking a brown-paper cigarette.

“Hello,” he said.  “Are you Mister Sprague’s new man?”

As Kit nodded, he thought he had noted a shade of emphasis on the Mister and the man, and he was sure of a hint of a twinkle in the corner of the eye.

“Well, I’m Doc Stine’s man,” the other went on.  “I’m five feet two inches long, and my name’s Shorty, Jack Short for short, and sometimes known as Johnny-on-the-Spot.”

Kit put out his hand and shook.  “Were you raised on bear-meat?” he queried.

“Sure,” was the answer; “though my first feedin’ was buffalo-milk as near as I can remember.  Sit down an’ have some grub.  The bosses ain’t turned out yet.”