“Eh, I'm sorry for that. I wished tha'd been to th' Klondike. I want to be towd about it,” he sighed. He pulled the atlas toward him and found a place in it.
“That theer's Dawson,” he announced. Tembarom saw that the region of the Klondike had been much studied. It was even rather faded with the frequent passage of searching fingers, as though it had been pored over with special curiosity.
“There's gowd-moines theer,” revealed Tummas. “An' theer's welly newt else but snow an' ice. A young chap as set out fro' here to get theer froze to death on th' way.”
“How did you get to hear about it?”
“Ann she browt me a paper onet.” He dug under his pillow, and brought out a piece of newspaper, worn and frayed and cut with age and usage. “This heer's what's left of it.” Tembarom saw that it was a fragment from an old American sheet and that a column was headed “The Rush for the Klondike.”
“Why didna tha go theer?” demanded Tummas. He looked up from his fragment and asked his question with a sudden reflectiveness, as though a new and interesting aspect of things had presented itself to him.
“I had too much to do in New York,” said Tembarom. “There's always something doing in New York, you know.”
Tummas silently regarded him a moment or so.
“It's a pity tha didn't go,” he said. “Happen tha'd never ha' coom back.”
Tembarom laughed the outright laugh.