"How's Sam Morgan's boy comin' on? We heard how you an' him was pardners an' had a big thing over on Ten Bow," inquired a tall man whose doleful length of sallow countenance had earned him the nickname of Fiddle Face. As he talked, this man gnawed the end of his prodigiously long mustache. Waseche's eyes lighted at the mention of the boy.
"He's the finest kid eveh was, I reckon. Sma't as a steel trap, an' they ain't nawthin' he won't tackle. C'n cook a meal o' vittles that'd make yo' mouth wateh, an' jest nach'lly handles dogs like an ol' tillicum."
"How come ye ain't workin' yer claim?" asked someone.
"It's this-a-way," answered Waseche, addressing the group. "Mine's Discovery, an' his'n's One Below, an' we th'ow'd in togetheh. 'Bout ten foot down, mine sloped off into his'n—run plumb out. An' I come away so's the kid'll have the claim cleah." A silence followed Waseche's simple statement—a silence punctuated by nods of approval and low-voiced mutterings of "Hard luck," and "Too bad." Fiddle Face was first to speak.
"That's what I call a man!" he exclaimed, bringing his hand down on Waseche's shoulder with a resounding whack.
"Won't ye step acrost to Hank's place an' have a drink?" invited a large man, removing his feet from the fender of the big stove, and settling the fur cap more firmly upon his head.
"No thanks, Joe. Fact is, I ain't took a drink fo' quite a spell. Kind o' got out o' the notion, somehow."
"Well, sure seems funny to hear you refusin' a drink! Remember Iditarod?" The man smiled.
"Oh, sure, I recollect. An' I recollect that it ain't neveh got me nawthin' but misery an' an empty poke. But, it ain't so much that. It's—well, it's like this: Sam Mo'gan, he ain't heah no mo' to look afteh the kid, an'—yo' see, the li'l scamp, he's kind o' got it in his head that they ain't no one jest like me—kind o' thinks I really 'mount to somethin', an' what I say an' do is 'bout right. It don't stand to reason I c'n make him b'lieve 'taint no good to drink licker, an' then go ahead an' drink it myself—does it, now?"
"Sure don't!" agreed the other heartily. "An' that's what I call a man!" And the whack that descended upon Waseche's shoulder out-sounded by half the whack of Fiddle Face.