as good as themselves and just as strained and mad.

Work! Old Tarwater could shame them all, despite his creaking and
crackling and the nasty hacking cough he had developed. Early and
late, on trail or in camp beside the trail he was ever in evidence,
ever busy at something, ever responsive to the hail of "Father
Christmas." Weary back-trippers would rest their packs on a log or
rock alongside of where he rested his, and would say: "Sing us
that song of yourn, dad, about Forty-Nine." And, when he had
wheezingly complied, they would arise under their loads, remark
that it was real heartening, and hit the forward trail again.

"If ever a man worked his passage and earned it," Big Bill confided
to his two partners, "that man's our old Skeezicks."

"You bet," Anson confirmed. "He's a valuable addition to the
party, and I, for one, ain't at all disagreeable to the notion of
making him a regular partner--"

"None of that!" Charles Crayton cut in. "When we get to Dawson
we're quit of him--that's the agreement. We'd only have to bury
him if we let him stay on with us. Besides, there's going to be a
famine, and every ounce of grub'll count. Remember, we're feeding
him out of our own supply all the way in. And if we run short in
the pinch next year, you'll know the reason. Steamboats can't get
up grub to Dawson till the middle of June, and that's nine months
away."

"Well, you put as much money and outfit in as the rest of us," Big
Bill conceded, "and you've a say according."