"If two years of hard luck gives you cold feet, you ain't worthy of the dignity of 'prospector.' This here is the only honorable calling there is. There's no competition and cuttin' throats in our business, nor we don't rob the widders and orphans. A prospector is defined as a semi-human being with a low forehead but a high sense of honor, a stummick that shies at salads, but a heart that's full of grit. They don't never lay down, and the very beauty of the business is that you never know when you're due. Some day a guy comes along: 'I hit her over yonder, bo,' says he, whereupon you insert yourself into a pack-strap, pound the trail, and the next you know you're a millionaire or two."
"Bah! No more stampedes for me. I've killed myself too often—there's nothing in 'em. I'm sick of it, I tell you, and I'm going out to God's country. No more wild scrambles and hardships for Buck."
A step sounded on the chips without, and a slender, sallow man entered.
"Hello, Maynard!" they chorused, and welcomed him to a seat.
"What are you doing out here?"
"D'you bring any chewing with you?"
Evidently he labored under excitement, for his face was flushed and his eyes danced nervously. He panted from his climb, ignoring their questions.
"There's been a big strike—over on the Tanana—four bits to the pan."
Forgetting fatigue, Crowley scrambled out of his bunk while the cook left his steaming skillet.
"When?"