"Well, how's Menard?"
"Dead!" Captain shook himself as though at the memory. "It was awful. He died while I was talking to him."
"Don't say! How's that?"
"I found him propped up in a chair. He looked bad, but said he was feeling fine—"
"That's the way they go. I've seen it many a time—feelin' fine plumb to the last."
"He'd been telling me about a bet he had with Promont. Promont was taken last week, too, you know, same time. Menard bet him twenty dollars that he'd outlast him."
"'I'm getting all right,' says he, 'but poor Promont's going to die. I'll get his twenty, sure!' I turned to josh with the boy a bit, an' when I spoke to Menard he didn't answer. His jaw had sagged and he'd settled in his chair. Promont saw it, too, and cackled. 'H'I 'ave win de bet! H'I 'ave win de bet!' That's all. He just slid off. Gee! It was horrible."
George put by his work and swore, pacing the rough pole floor.
"Oh, the cussed fools! That makes six dead from the one cabin—six from eighteen, an' Promont'll make seven to-morrow. Do ye mind how we begged 'em to quit that dug-out an' build a white man's house, an' drink spruce tea, an' work! They're too —— lazy. They lie around in that hole, breath bad air, an' rot."
"And just to think, if we only had a crate of potatoes in camp we could save every man jack of 'em. Lord! They never even brought no citric acid nor lime juice—nothin'! If we hadn't lost our grub when the whale-boat upset, eh? That ten-gallon keg of booze would help some. Say! I got such a thirst I don't never expect to squench it proper;" he spoke plaintively.