FIVE-DOG LIMIT AT 65° N.
hard luck,' observed Tib, with snapping eyes, as our captor lost a big pot on three jacks held cold.
"‘Glad of it!' I cried. 'I hope he gets maced for every barbed arrow in his quiver. Serve him plaguey right.'
"‘I don't know,' mused Tib, following the play keenly; 'the other Eiffel Tower strikes me as being, if anything, even more reprehensible of feature. That scar on his left cheek makes him look hungry.'
"I, too, noted this. The chief of our tribe was now down to his dogs and captives, and it was evidently a struggle for him to decide which he would hazard. But the dog means life to the snow people, and with a grunt, intended for a sigh, he sullenly motioned for me to step on the carpet.
"‘Great Scott! He's betting you, Billy!' cried Tib. 'Why, this will never do! We mustn't be separated, for I'd be ashamed to go back without you. And alone up here you'd be as helpless as an eider duck in Central Park!'
"I wrung his hand, but felt encouraged. I was elated to observe he had decided to postpone dying, and hope surged through my frost-lined veins as he gave evidence of returning to his old masterful self. For, even as I was wagered, I believed his savoir faire would yank us both back to the friendly coast, once he got to working.
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