“In fur-away Alaska, whare the Yukon River flows,
An’ the mighty boulders stand ’mid wealth and might,
In a land o’ wealth untold, in a grave that’s decked with g-o-l-d,
He’s sleepin’ i-n th’ Klondike Vale to-night!”
Flushed, his faded, blue eyes shining in the deep sockets, old Whipple’s laughter sounded again, like mirthless echoes in an empty cavern.
“‘In a grave that’s decked with gold!’ Never be my luck, live or dead!”
“Shut up, Nock!” McAdams appeared with an armful of slender, twisted sticks. “Get yourself all het up, ye old fool!”
“No use abusing the old fellow,” remarked Turner. He had put the diary aside and was perusing a small pocket volume of something. “Delirium, I suppose,” he added in a lower voice. “Let him die in peace!”
“Aw,” McAdams muttered; “he’s all right. Tuckered out, tha’s all.” In a louder voice: “Lay still, old scout, will yer? They ain’t much grub left, and durn little game away up here. How we gonna get yer down to the Yukon ’less you rest up so we kin start again in a day or two? Cut out the gab!”
“Gosh, but you’re a rough devil, McAdams!” exclaimed Turner petulantly. “Let him die in peace, can’t you?”