"I cain't do it, boys. Honest I cain't. You tell him." Thus each man urged his neighbour, and in the midst of their half-spoken sentences the door opened and the boy entered. An awkward hush fell upon them—the fifty rough, fur-clad men whose bearded faces stared at him from the gloom of the long, dark room—and the one small boy who stared back with undisguised interest. The silence became painful, and at length someone spoke:
"So you're Sam Morgan's boy?" the man asked, advancing and offering a great hairy hand. The boy took the hand and bore the pain of the mighty grip without flinching.
"Yes, sir," he answered. "Do you know him—my father?"
"Sure I know him! Do I know Sam Morgan? Well, I just guess I do know him! There ain't a man 'tween here an' Dawson don't know Sam Morgan!" Others crowded about and welcomed the boy with rude kindness.
"Is my father here, in Anvik?" the boy asked of the man called Pete.
"No, kid, he ain't here—in Anvik. Say, Waseche, where is Sam Morgan at? Do you know?" Thus Pete shifted the responsibility. But Waseche Bill, a long, lank Kentuckian, was equal to the occasion.
"Why, yes, Sam Mo'gan, he's up above, somewhe's," with a sweep of his arm in the direction of the headwaters of the great river.
"That's right," others added, "Sam Morgan's up above."
"When can I go to him?" asked the boy, and again the men looked at each other helplessly.
"The's a bunch of us goin' up Hesitation way in a day or two, an' yo' c'n go 'long of us. Sam's cabin's at Hesitation. But yo' cain't go 'long in that rig," he added, eyeing the threadbare overcoat and ragged stockings.