late for me to find another chance like this. And, as I'm sure
going to get to Klondike, it's just plumb impossible for him to say
no."

Old John Tarwater became a striking figure on a trail unusually
replete with striking figures. With thousands of men, each back-
tripping half a ton of outfit, retracing every mile of the trail
twenty times, all came to know him and to hail him as "Father
Christmas." And, as he worked, ever he raised his chant with his
age-falsetto voice. None of the three men he had joined could
complain about his work. True, his joints were stiff--he admitted
to a trifle of rheumatism. He moved slowly, and seemed to creak
and crackle when he moved; but he kept on moving. Last into the
blankets at night, he was first out in the morning, so that the
other three had hot coffee before their one before-breakfast pack.
And, between breakfast and dinner and between dinner and supper, he
always managed to back-trip for several packs himself. Sixty
pounds was the limit of his burden, however. He could manage
seventy-five, but he could not keep it up. Once, he tried ninety,
but collapsed on the trail and was seriously shaky for a couple of
days afterward.

Work! On a trail where hard-working men learned for the first time
what work was, no man worked harder in proportion to his strength
than Old Tarwater. Driven desperately on by the near-thrust of
winter, and lured madly on by the dream of gold, they worked to
their last ounce of strength and fell by the way. Others, when
failure made certain, blew out their brains. Some went mad, and
still others, under the irk of the man-destroying strain, broke
partnerships and dissolved life-time friendships with fellows just