“Well, you’re the real goods, at any rate,” Kit grinned back at him.  “It makes me respect God the more just to look at you.”

“He was sure goin’ some, eh?” was Shorty’s fashion of overcoming the embarrassment of the compliment.

The trail by water crossed Lake Labarge.  Here was no fast current, but a tideless stretch of forty miles which must be rowed unless a fair wind blew.  But the time for fair wind was past, and an icy gale blew in their teeth out of the north.  This made a rough sea, against which it was almost impossible to pull the boat.  Added to their troubles was driving snow; also, the freezing of the water on their oar-blades kept one man occupied in chopping it off with a hatchet.  Compelled to take their turn at the oars, Sprague and Stine patently loafed.  Kit had learned how to throw his weight on an oar, but he noted that his employers made a seeming of throwing their weights and that they dipped their oars at a cheating angle.

At the end of three hours, Sprague pulled his oar in and said they would run back into the mouth of the river for shelter.  Stine seconded him, and the several hard-won miles were lost.  A second day, and a third, the same fruitless attempt was made.  In the river mouth, the continually arriving boats from White Horse made a flotilla of over two hundred.  Each day forty or fifty arrived, and only two or three won to the northwest shore of the lake and did not come back.  Ice was now forming in the eddies, and connecting from eddy to eddy in thin lines around the points.  The freeze-up was very imminent.

“We could make it if they had the souls of clams,” Kit told Shorty, as they dried their moccasins by the fire on the evening of the third day.  “We could have made it to-day if they hadn’t turned back.  Another hour’s work would have fetched that west shore.  They’re—­they’re babes in the woods.”

“Sure,” Shorty agreed.  He turned his moccasin to the flame and debated a moment.  “Look here, Smoke.  It’s hundreds of miles to Dawson.  If we don’t want to freeze in here, we’ve got to do something.  What d’ye say?”

Kit looked at him, and waited.

“We’ve got the immortal cinch on them two babes,” Shorty expounded.  “They can give orders an’ shed mazuma, but as you say, they’re plum babes.  If we’re goin’ to Dawson, we got to take charge of this here outfit.”

They looked at each other.

“It’s a go,” said Kit, as his hand went out in ratification.

In the morning, long before daylight, Shorty issued his call.  “Come on!” he roared.  “Tumble out, you sleepers!  Here’s your coffee!  Kick into it!  We’re goin’ to make a start!”

Grumbling and complaining, Stine and Sprague were forced to get under way two hours earlier than ever before.  If anything, the gale was stiffer, and in a short time every man’s face was iced up, while the oars were heavy with ice.  Three hours they struggled, and four, one man steering, one chopping ice, two toiling at the oars, and each taking his various turns.  The northwest shore loomed nearer and nearer.  The gale blew ever harder, and at last Sprague pulled in his oar in token of surrender.  Shorty sprang to it, though his relief had only begun.