"It's a right smaht spell o' weatheh we're havin', ain't it? An' how's all the folks? Don't all talk to onct, now, till I get through welcomin' yo' into me an' the kid's midst—oah else tellin' yo' how glad we-all ah to find ouhselves amongst yo'—owin' to who's givin' the pahty." He glanced from face to face, but, as before, all were stolid as graven images. Suddenly he turned upon the bewhiskered one of the green eyes:
"Hey, yo' red chinchilly! Cain't yo' talk none? An' cain't yo' yelleh perils, heah, ondehstand no language? I cain't talk no laundry, myself, but besides American, I'm some fluent in Chinook, Metlakat', Tlinkit, an' Athapascan. As fo' yo', yo' look to me like the Tipperary section of a Patrick's Day parade! Come on, now—loosen up! If yo' an' Injun, so'm I—only I've done moulted my feathehs, an' washed my face since the Fo'th of July!"
Directly addressed, the man stepped from behind his rock, and the lid of the left green eye dropped in a decided wink. The others immediately followed, crowding close about the newcomers. Squat, full-bodied men, they were, fur-clad from top to toe, and all armed with short, copper-tipped harpoons which they leaned upon as they stared. Waseche grinned into their wide, flat faces, as he of the red whiskers elbowed to the fore and spoke in a singsong voice with a decided Hibernian accent:
"Which me name's O'Brien," he began, "an' ut's both sorry an' glad Oi am to see ye. But, phwere's th' shtampede?" He glanced anxiously up the river.
"What stampede?" asked Waseche, in surprise.
"Phy, th' shtampede! Th' shtampede to th' Ignatook, th' creek yondher—th' creek that biles."
"Sea'ch me! Me an' the kid's all theah is—an' yo' wouldn't hahdly call us a stampede."
"But, Car-rlson! An' th' breed, Pete Mateese! Didn't they nayther wan git t'rough? Ilse, how'd ye come to be follyin' th' back thrail?" The man's anxiety increased, and he waited impatiently for an answer.
"No. Carlson didn't get through. We come onto his last camp about ten days back. He died huntin' the Tatonduk divide. But, how come yo'-all to be heah? Who's yo' friends? An' wheah's ouh outfit?"
"Hivin hilp th' bunch av us!" wailed the Irishman. "No shtampede, afther all—an' we'll all be dead befoor we live to git out av this!" The man gazed far out into the gathering gloom, wringing his hands and muttering to himself. Suddenly his eyes lighted, and he questioned the two eagerly: