The two turning in by the door are the regulation ›breeds‹ or Boisbrûles. That lad with the worsted breech scarf – notice his eyebrows and the turn of his jaw – shows a Scotchman wept in his mother's smoky tepee. And that handsome-looking fellow putting the capote under his head is a French half-breed – you heard him talking; he doesn't like the two Indians turning in next to him. You see, when the ›breeds‹ rose under Riel the full-bloods kept the peace, and they've not lost much love for one another since.«

»But I say, what's that glum-looking fellow by the stove? I'll swear he can't talk English. He hasn't opened his mouth all night.«

»You're wrong. He knows English well enough. Did you follow his eyes when he listened? I did. But he's neither kith nor kin to the others. When they talked their own patois you could see he didn't understand. I've been wondering myself what he is. Let's find out.«

»Fire a couple of sticks into the stove!« Malemute Kid commanded, raising his voice and looking squarely at the man in question.

He obeyed at once.

»Had discipline knocked into him somewhere,« Prince commented in a low tone.

Malemute Kid nodded, took off his socks, and picked his way among recumbent men to the stove. There he hung his damp footgear among a score or so of mates.

»When do you expect to get to Dawson?« he asked tentatively.

The man studied him a moment before replying. »They say seventy-five mile. So? Maybe two days.«

The very slightest accent was perceptible, while there was no awkward hesitancy or groping for words.

»Been in the country before?«

»No.«

»Northwest Territory?«

»Yes.«

»Born there?«

»No.«

»Well, where the devil were you born? You're none of these.« Malemute Kid swept his hand over the dog drivers, even including the two policemen who had turned into Prince's bunk. »Where did you come from? I've seen faces like yours before, though I can't remember just where.«

»I know you,« he irrelevantly replied, at once turning the drift of Malemute Kid's questions.

»Where? Ever see me?«

»No; your partner, him priest, Pastilik, long time ago. Him ask me if I see you, Malemute Kid. Him give me grub. I no stop long. You hear him speak 'bout me?«

»Oh! you're the fellow that traded the otter skins for the dogs?«

The man nodded, knocked out his pipe, and signified his disinclination for conversation by rolling up in his furs. Malemute Kid blew out the slush lamp and crawled under the blankets with Prince.

»Well, what is he?«

»Don't know – turned me off, somehow, and then shut up like a clam. But he's a fellow to whet your curiosity. I've heard of him. All the coast wondered about him eight years ago. Sort of mysterious, you know. He came down out of the North, in the dead of winter, many a thousand miles from here, skirting Bering Sea and traveling as though the devil were after him. No one ever learned where he came from, but he must have come far. He was badly travel-worn when he got food from the Swedish missionary on Golovin Bay and asked the way south. We heard of this afterward. Then he abandoned the shore line, heading right across Norton Sound. Terrible weather, snowstorms and high winds, but he pulled through where a thousand other men would have died, missing St.