The Works of Jack London: Novels, Short Stories, Poems, Plays, Memoirs & Essays. Jack London
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behoove me to complain, sic a michty fine job ye're makin' on it."
"You are doing well," Corliss chuckled, as Tommy dropped out of sight and landed into the bed of the gorge. "The cantankerous brute! he'd argue on the trail to Judgment."
"Where did you learn to paddle?" she asked.
"College--exercise," he answered, shortly. "But isn't that fine? Look!"
The melting ice had formed a pool in the bottom of the gorge. Frona stretched out full length, and dipped her hot mouth in its coolness. And lying as she did, the soles of her dilapidated moccasins, or rather the soles of her feet (for moccasins and stockings had gone in shreds), were turned upward. They were very white, and from contact with the ice were bruised and cut. Here and there the blood oozed out, and from one of the toes it streamed steadily.
"So wee, and pretty, and salt-like," Tommy gibed. "One wouldna think they could lead a strong man to hell."
"By the way you grumble, they're leading you fast enough," Corliss answered angrily.
"Forty mile an hour," Tommy retorted, as he walked away, gloating over having the last word.
"One moment. You've two shirts. Lend me one."
The Scotsman's face lighted inquisitively, till he comprehended. Then he shook his head and started on again.
Frona scrambled to her feet. "What's the matter?"
"Nothing. Sit down."
"But what is the matter?"
Corliss put his hands on her shoulders and pressed her back. "Your feet. You can't go on in such shape. They're in ribbons. See!" He brushed the sole of one of them and held up a blood-dripping palm. "Why didn't you tell me?"
"Oh, they didn't bother--much."
"Give me one of your skirts," he demanded.
"I . . ." She faltered. "I only have one."
He looked about him. Tommy had disappeared among the ice-floes.
"We must be getting on," Frona said, attempting to rise.
But he held her back. "Not another step till I fix you. Here goes, so shut your eyes."
She obeyed, and when she opened them he was naked to the waist, and his undershirt, torn in strips, was being bound about her feet.
"You were in the rear, and I did not know--"
"Don't apologize, pray," she interrupted. "I could have spoken."
"I'm not; I'm reproaching you. Now, the other one. Put it up!"
The nearness to her bred a madness, and he touched his lips lightly to the same white little toe that had won the Baron Courbertin a kiss.
Though she did not draw back, her face flushed, and she thrilled as she had thrilled once before in her life. "You take advantage of your own goodness," she rebuked him.
"Then I will doubly advantage myself."
"Please don't," she begged.
"And why not? It is a custom of the sea to broach the spirits as the ship prepares to sink. And since this is a sort of a forlorn hope, you know, why not?"
"But . . ."
"But what, Miss Prim?"
"Oh! Of all things, you know I do not deserve that! If there were nobody else to be considered, why, under the circumstances . . ."
He drew the last knot tight and dropped her foot. "Damn St. Vincent, anyway! Come on!"
"So would I, were I you," she laughed, taking up her end of the canoe. "But how you have changed, Vance. You are not the same man I met on the Dyea Trail. You hadn't learned to swear, then, among other things."
"No, I'm not the same; for which I thank God and you. Only I think I am honester than you. I always live up to my philosophy."
"Now confess that's unfair. You ask too much under the circumstances--"
"Only a little toe."
"Or else, I suppose, you just care for me in a kind, big-brotherly way. In which case, if you really wish it, you may--"
"Do keep quiet," he broke in, roughly, "or I'll be making a gorgeous fool of myself."
"Kiss all my toes," she finished.
He grunted, but did not deign a reply. The work quickly took their breath, and they went on in silence till they descended the last steep to where McPherson waited by the open river.
"Del hates St. Vincent," she said boldly. "Why?"
"Yes, it seems that way." He glanced back at her curiously. "And wherever he goes, Del lugs an old Russian book, which he can't read but which he nevertheless regards, in some sort of way, as St. Vincent's Nemesis. And do you know, Frona, he has such faith in it that I can't help catching a little myself. I don't know whether you'll come to me, or whether I'll go to you, but--"
She dropped her end of the canoe and broke out in laughter. He was annoyed, and a hurt spread of blood ruddied his face.
"If I have--" he began.
"Stupid!" she laughed. "Don't be silly! And above all don't be dignified. It doesn't exactly become you at the present moment,--your hair all tangled, a murderous knife in your belt, and naked to the waist like a pirate stripped for battle. Be fierce, frown, swear, anything, but please don't be dignified. I do wish I had my camera. In after years I could say: 'This, my friends, is Corliss, the great Arctic explorer, just as he looked at the conclusion of his world-famous trip Through Darkest Alaska.'"
He pointed an ominous finger at her and said sternly, "Where is your skirt?"
She involuntarily looked down. But its tatterdemalion presence relieved her, and her face jerked up scarlet.
"You should be ashamed!"
"Please, please do not be dignified," he laughed. "Very true, it doesn't exactly become you at the present moment. Now, if I had my camera--"
"Do be quiet and go on," she said. "Tommy is waiting. I hope the sun takes the skin all off your back," she panted vindictively, as they slid the canoe down the last shelf and dropped it into the water.
Ten minutes later they climbed the ice-wall, and on and up the bank, which was partly a hillside, to where the signal of distress still fluttered. Beneath it, on the ground, lay stretched the man. He lay very quietly, and the fear that they were too late was upon them, when he moved his head slightly and moaned. His rough clothes were in rags, and the black, bruised flesh of his feet showed through the remnants of his moccasins. His body was thin and gaunt, without flesh-pads or muscles, while the bones seemed ready to break through the tight-stretched skin. As Corliss felt his pulse, his eyes fluttered open and stared glassily. Frona shuddered.
"Man, it's fair gruesome," McPherson muttered, running his hand up a shrunken arm.
"You go on to the canoe, Frona," Corliss said. "Tommy and I will carry him down."
But her lips set firmly. Though the descent was made easier by her aid, the man was well shaken by the time they laid him in the bottom of the canoe,--so well shaken that some last shreds of consciousness were aroused. He opened his eyes and whispered hoarsely, "Jacob Welse . . . despatches . . . from the Outside." He plucked feebly at his open shirt, and across his emaciated chest they saw the leather strap, to which, doubtless, the despatch-pouch was slung.
At either end of the canoe there was room to spare, but amidships Corliss was forced to paddle with the man between his knees. La Bijou swung out blithely from the bank. It was down-stream at last, and there was little need for exertion.
Vance's arms and shoulders and back, a bright scarlet, caught Frona's attention. "My hopes are realized," she exulted, reaching out and softly stroking a burning arm. "We shall have to put cold cream on it when we get back."
"Go ahead," he encouraged. "That feels awfully good."
She