ing his thumb nails by the scale of the map. The council, in which the two Incapables had whined to excellent disadvantage, was drawing to a close.
"Hudson Bay Post, long time ago. No use um now." Jacques Baptiste's father had made the trip for the Fur Company in the old days, incidentally marking the trail with a couple of frozen toes.
"Sufferin' cracky!" cried another of the party. "No whites?"
"Nary white," Sloper sententiously affirmed; "but it 's only five hundred more up the Yukon to Dawson. Call it a rough thousand from here."
Weatherbee and Cuthfert groaned in chorus.
"How long 'll that take, Baptiste?"
The half-breed figured for a moment. "Workum like hell, no man play out, ten—twenty—forty—fifty days. Um babies come" (designating the Incapables), "no can tell. Mebbe when hell freeze over; mebbe not then."
The manufacture of snowshoes and moccasins ceased. Somebody called the name of an absent member, who came out of an ancient cabin at the edge of the camp-fire and joined
