"It's a crazy scheme," says he, shaking the giant Kentuckian by the hand, "and you won't get thirty miles before you find it out."
"Call it an expedition to Anvik," urged Mac. "Load up there with reindeer meat, and come back. If we don't get some fresh meat soon, we'll be having scurvy."
"What you're furr doin'," says O'Flynn for the twentieth time, "has niver been done, not ayven be Indians. The prastes ahl say so."
"So do the Sour-doughs," said Mac. "It isn't as if you had dogs."
"Good-bye," said the Colonel, and the men grasped hands.
Potts shook hands with the Boy as heartily as though that same hand had never half throttled him in the cause of a missing hatchet.
"Good-bye, Kiddie. I bequeath you my share o' syrup."
"Good-bye; meet you in the Klondyke!"
"Good-bye. Hooray for the Klondyke in June!"
"Klondyke in June! Hoop-la!"