"He's all right in the clo'es he's got," said Mac, with the air of one who closes an argument. He stood up, worn and tired, and looked at his watch.
"You ain't goin' to bed this early?" said Potts, quite lively and recovered from his cold bath. That was the worst of sleeping in the Little Cabin. Bedtime broke the circle; you left interesting visitors behind, and sometimes the talk was better as the night wore on.
"Well, someone ought to wood up down yonder. O'Flynn, will you go?"
O'Flynn was in the act of declining the honour. But Benham, who had been saying, "It takes a year in the Yukon for a man to get on to himself," interrupted his favourite theme to ask: "Your other cabin like this?"
Whereon, O'Flynn, shameless of the contrast in cabins, jumped up, and said: "Come and see, while I wood up."
"You're very well fixed here," said Benham, rising and looking round with condescension; "but men like you oughtn't to try to live without real bread. No one can live and work on baking-powder."
There was a general movement to the door, of which Benham was the centre.
"I tell you a lump of sour dough, kept over to raise the next batch, is worth more in this country than a pocket full of gold."
"I'll give you twenty-eight for that musk-rat coat," said Mac.
Benham turned, stared back at him a moment, and then laughed.