“More?” he said, in a deep, not unmusical, tone.
The half-starved traveller nodded, and his eyes sparkled. One of the Eskimos rose and re-filled the bowl from a tin camp-kettle which stood on the stove. The famished man took it and at once began to sup the invigorating liquid. The agonies of his frost-bites were terrible, but the pangs of hunger were greater. By and by the bowl was set down empty.
The half-breed sat up and crossed his legs, and leant his body against two sacks which contained something that crackled slightly under his weight.
“Give you something more solid in an hour or so. Best not have it too soon,” he said, speaking slowly, but with good enunciation.
“Not now?” said the traveller, in a disappointed tone.
The other shook his head.
“We’re all going to have supper then. Best wait.” Then, after a pause: “Where from?”
“Forty Mile Creek,” said the other.
“You don’t say! Alone?”