"Sho', now, Misteh Squigg, co'se yo'll do it." Waseche Bill turned to the others. "We-all will give Misteh Squigg five minutes to think it oveh. Then some of yo' boys jest amble out an' tell it around camp—the story of Carlson, the man that died 'cause his pahdneh couldn't go back. The boys'll be right int'rested, 'cause a lot of 'em know'd Carlson, an' they liked him. Mos' likely they'll call a meetin' an'——"
"Gi' me the pen! Gi' me the pen!" shrieked Mr. Squigg, whose face had gone pasty white. And the men saw that the hand that held the pen trembled violently.
"Now, Misteh Squigg," announced Waseche, when the other had finished, "yo' git! An' if yo' know what's good fo' yo', yo'll keep on gittin'! Alaska don't need such men as yo'. Yo' don't fit! This heah's a big country, Misteh Squigg. It's broad, an' long, an' clean. An' the men that live in it ah rough men, but theah heahts is as big as the country. An' they ah men that stand fo'-squah with each otheh, an' with the wo'ld. In Alaska a man c'n count on faih play, an' it don't make no dif'ence if his hide is white, oah red, oah yallah, oah black. 'Cause he ain't measu'ed acco'din' to colah noah heft, noah by the gold in his poke, neitheh. It's what a man does that counts. The li'l eveh-day acts an' deeds that shows wheah his heaht is—an' what's in him. An', now, Misteh Squigg, yondeh's the do'. An' beyond, the trail stretches away—an' fah away. Eveh mile yo' put between yo'self an Ten Bow is a friend of yo'n. Me'be somewheahs theah's a place li'l enough fo' a man with a heaht as small, an' hahd, an' black as a double B shot. If they is, an' yo' c'n find it, yo'll be home. But don't stop to hunt fo' it in Alaska—it ain't heah." As Waseche Bill finished, the door opened and, without a word, Mr. Squigg slunk into the star-lit night—the softly radiant night that brushed caressingly the white snows of Aurora Land.
"Squigg slunk into the star-lit night."
Late the men of Ten Bow talked about the little stove. At last, when they arose to go, Big McDougall stepped close to Connie's side.
"Laddie," he said, "wad ye do a favour f'r an auld mon—jest the ain time?"
"What!" exclaimed the boy, and his eyes shone, "do a favour for you! For the man that lent me the best dog-team in all Alaska! Why, if it hadn't been for your dogs, Mac, I could never have found Waseche. Just name it, and you'll see!"
"Weel spoken, lad! Spoken like a mon!" The Scot's eyes twinkled. "An' I'll hold ye to yer word. The favour is this: that ye'll accept the ten-team o' malamutes that's carried ye so far acrost unmapped miles, as a present fr' an auld mon whose heart thinks more o' ye than his rough auld tongue c'n tell." The boy stared speechless at the big, smiling man. And when, at length, he found his voice, the words choked in his throat: