In a Far Country
When a man journeys into a far country，he must be prepared to forget many of the things he has learned，and to acquire such customs as are inherent with existence in the new land；he must abandon the old ideals and the old gods，and oftentimes he must reverse the very codes by which his conduct has hitherto[1]been shaped.To those who have the protean faculty of adaptability，the novelty of such change may even be a source of pleasure；but to those who happen to be hardened to the ruts in which they were created，the pressure of the altered environment is unbearable，and they chafe in body and in spirit under the new restrictions[2]which they do not understand.This chafing is bound to act and react，producing divers evils and leading to various misfortunes.It were better for the man who cannot fit himself to the new groove to return to his own country；if he delay too long，he will surely die.
The man who turns his back upon the comforts of an elder civilization，to face the savage youth，the primordial[3]simplicity of the North，may estimate success at an inverse ratio to the quantity and quality of his hopelessly fixed habits.He will soon discover，if he be a fit candidate，that the material habits are the less important.The exchange of such things as a dainty menu for rough fare，of the stiff leather shoe for the soft，shapeless moccasin，of the feather bed for a couch in the snow，is after all a very easy matter.But his pinch will come in learning properly to shape his mind's attitude toward all things，and especially toward his fellow man.For the courtesies of ordinary life，he must substitute unselfishness，forbearance[4]，and tolerance.Thus，and thus only，can he gain that pearl of great price—true comradeship.He must not say‘thank you’；he must mean it without opening his mouth，and prove it by responding in kind.In short，he must substitute the deed for the word，the spirit for the letter.
When the world rang with the tale of Arctic gold，and the lure of the North gripped the heartstrings of men，Carter Weatherbee threw up his snug[5]clerkship，turned the half of his savings over to his wife，and with the remainder bought an outfit.There was no romance in his nature—the bondage of commerce had crushed all that；he was simply tired of the ceaseless grind，and wished to risk great hazards in view of corresponding[6]returns.Like many another fool，disdaining[7]the old trails used by the Northland pioneers for a score of years，he hurried to Edmonton in the spring of the year；and there，unluckily for his soul's welfare，he allied himself with a party of men.
There was nothing unusual about this party，except its plans.Even its goal，like that of all the other parties，was the Klondike.But the route it had mapped out to attain that goal took away the breath of the hardiest native，born and bred to the vicissitudes[8]of the Northwest.Even Jacques Baptiste，born of a Chippewa woman and a renegade voyageur（having raised his first whimpers in a deerskin lodge north of the sixty-fifth parallel，and had the same hushed by blissful[9]sucks of raw tallow），was surprised.Though he sold his services to them and agreed to travel even to the never-opening ice，he shook his head ominously[10]whenever his advice was asked.
Percy Cuthfert's evil star must have been in the ascendant[11]，for he，too，joined this company of argonauts.He was an ordinary man，with a bank account as deep as his culture，which is saying a good deal.He had no reason to embark on[12]such a venture—no reason in the world save that he suffered from an abnormal development of sentimentality[13].He mistook this for the true spirit of romance and adventure.Many another man has done the like，and made as fatal a mistake.
The first break-up of spring found the party following the ice-run of Elk River.It was an imposing fleet，for the outfit was large，and they were accompanied by a disreputable[14]contingent of half-breed voyageurs with their women and children.Day in and day out，they labored with the bateaux and canoes，fought mosquitoes and other kindred pests，or sweated and swore at the portages.Severe toil like this lays a man naked to the very roots of his soul，and ere Lake Athabasca was lost in the south，each member of the party had hoisted his true colors.
The two shirks and chronic grumblers were Carter Weatherbee and Percy Cuthfert.The whole party complained less of its aches and pains than did either of them.Not once did they volunteer for the thousand and one petty duties of the camp.A bucket of water to be brought，an extra armful of wood to be chopped，the dishes to be washed and wiped，a search to be made through the outfit for some suddenly indispensable article—and these two effete scions of civilization discovered sprains or blisters requiring instant attention.They were the first to turn in at night，with score of tasks yet undone；the last to turn out in the morning，when the start should be in readiness before the breakfast was begun.They were the first to fall to at mealtime，the last to have a hand in the cooking；the first to dive for a slim delicacy[15]，the last to discover they had added to their own another man's share.If they toiled at the oars，they slyly cut the water at each stroke and allowed the boat's momentum[16]to float up the blade.They thought nobody noticed；but their comrades swore under their breaths and grew to hate them，while Jacques Baptiste sneered openly and damned them from morning till night.But Jacques Baptiste was no gentleman.
At the Great Slave，Hudson Bay dogs were purchased，and the fleet sank to the guards with its added burden of dried fish and pemican.Then canoe and bateau[17]answered to the swift current of the Mackenzie，and they plunged into the Great Barren Ground.Every likely-looking‘feeder’was prospected，but the elusive[18]‘paydirt’danced ever to the north.At the Great Bear，overcome by the common dread of the Unknown Lands，their voyageurs began to desert，and Fort of Good Hope saw the last and bravest bending to the towlines as they bucked the current down which they had so treacherously glided.Jacques Baptiste alone remained.Had he not sworn to travel even to the never-opening ice？
The lying charts，compiled in main from hearsay，were now constantly consulted.And they felt the need of hurry，for the sun had already passed its northern solstice[19]and was leading the winter south again.Skirting the shores of the bay，where the Mackenzie disembogues[20]into the Arctic Ocean，they entered the mouth of the Little Peel River.Then began the arduous[21]upstream toil，and the two Incapables fared worse than ever.Towline and pole，paddle and tumpline，rapids and portages—such tortures served to give the one a deep disgust for great hazards，and printed for the other a fiery text on the true romance of adventure.One day they waxed mutinous[22]，and being vilely cursed by Jacques Baptiste，turned，as worms sometimes will.But the half-breed thrashed the twain，and sent them，bruised and bleeding，about their work.It was the first time either had been manhandled.
Abandoning their river craft at the headwaters of the Little Peel,they consumed the rest of the summer in the great portage over the Mackenzie watershed to the West Rat.This little stream fed the Porcupine,which in turn joined the Yukon where that mighty highway of the North countermarches on the Arctic Circle.But they had lost in the race with winter,and one day they tied their rafts to the thick eddy-ice and hurried their goods ashore.That night the river jammed and broke several times;the following morning it had fallen asleep for good.
‘We can't be more'n four hundred miles from the Yukon,’concluded Sloper,multiplying 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[23]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 campfire and joined them.The cabin was one of the many mysteries which lurk in the vast recesses of the North.Built when and by whom,no man could tell.Two graves in the open,piled high with stones,perhaps contained the secret of those early wanderers.But whose hand had piled the stones?
The moment had come.Jacques Baptiste paused in the fitting of a harness and pinned the struggling dog in the snow.The cook made mute protest for delay，threw a handful of bacon[24]into a noisy pot of beans，then came to attention.Sloper rose to his feet.His body was a ludicrous[25]contrast to the healthy physiques of the Incapables.Yellow and weak，fleeing from a South American fever-hole，he had not broken his flight across the zones，and was still able to toil with men.His weight was probably ninety pounds，with the heavy hunting knife thrown in，and his grizzled hair told of a prime which had ceased to be.The fresh young muscles of either Weatherbee or Cuthfert were equal to ten times the endeavor of his；yet he could walk them into the earth in a day's journey.And all this day he had whipped his stronger comrades into venturing a thousand miles of the stiffest hardship man can conceive[26].He was the incarnation[27]of the unrest of his race，and the old Teutonic stubbornness，dashed with the quick grasp and action of the Yankee，held the flesh in the bondage of the spirit.
‘All those in favor of going on with the dogs as soon as the ice sets,say ay.’
‘Ay!’rang out eight voices—voices destined to string a trail of oaths along many a hundred miles of pain.
‘Contrary minded?’
‘No！’For the first time the Incapables were united without some compromise[28]of personal interests.
‘And what are you going to do about it？’Weatherbee added belligerently[29].
‘Majority rule!Majority rule!’clamored the rest of the party.
‘I know the expedition is liable to fall through if you don't come,’Sloper replied sweetly;‘but I guess,if we try real hard,we can manage to do without you.What do you say,boys?’
The sentiment[30]was cheered to the echo.
‘But I say，you know，’Cuthfert ventured apprehensively[31]；‘what's a chap like me to do？’
‘Ain't you coming with us.’
‘No—o.’
‘Then do as you damn well please.We won't have nothing to say.’
‘Kind o'calkilate yuh might settle it with that canoodlin'pardner of yourn,’suggested a heavy-going Westerner from the Dakotas,at the same time pointing out Weatherbee.‘He'll be shore to ask yuh what yur a-goin'to do when it comes to cookin'an'gatherin'the wood.’
‘Then we'll consider it all arranged,’concluded Sloper.‘We'll pull out tomorrow,if we camp within five miles—just to get everything in running order and remember if we've forgotten anything.’
The sleds groaned by on their steel-shod runners，and the dogs strained low in the harnesses in which they were born to die.Jacques Baptiste paused by the side of Sloper to get a last glimpse of the cabin.The smoke curled up pathetically[32]from the Yukon stovepipe.The two Incapables were watching them from the doorway.
Sloper laid his hand on the other's shoulder.
‘Jacques Baptiste,did you ever hear of the Kilkenny cats?’
The half-breed shook his head.
‘Well,my friend and good comrade,the Kilkenny cats fought till neither hide,nor hair,nor yowl,was left.You understand?—till nothing was left.Very good.Now,these two men don't like work.They'll be all alone in that cabin all winter—a mighty long,dark winter.Kilkenny cats—well?’
The Frenchman in Baptiste shrugged his shoulders，but the Indian in him was silent.Nevertheless，it was an eloquent shrug，pregnant[33]with prophecy.
Things prospered in the little cabin at first.The rough badinage[34]of their comrades had made Weatherbee and Cuthfert conscious of the mutual responsibility which had devolved upon them；besides，there was not so much work after all for two healthy men.And the removal of the cruel whiphand，or in other words the bulldozing[35]half-breed，had brought with it a joyous reaction.At first，each strove to outdo the other，and they performed petty tasks with an unction which would have opened the eyes of their comrades who were now wearing out bodies and souls on the Long Trail.
All care was banished.The forest，which shouldered in upon them from three sides，was an inexhaustible[36]woodyard.A few yards from their door slept the Porcupine，and a hole through its winter robe formed a bubbling spring of water，crystal clear and painfully cold.But they soon grew to find fault with even that.The hole would persist in freezing up，and thus gave them many a miserable hour of ice-chopping.The unknown builders of the cabin had extended the sidelogs so as to support a cache at the rear.In this was stored the bulk of the party's provisions.Food there was，without stint，for three times the men who were fated to live upon it.But the most of it was the kind which built up brawn and sinew，but did not tickle the palate.True，there was sugar in plenty for two ordinary men；but these two were little else than children.They early discovered the virtues of hot water judiciously[37]saturated with sugar，and they prodigally swam their flapjacks and soaked their crusts in the rich，white syrup.Then coffee and tea，and especially the dried fruits，made disastrous[38]inroads[39]upon it.The first words they had were over the sugar question.And it is a really serious thing when two men，wholly dependent upon each other for company，begin to quarrel.
Weatherbee loved to discourse blatantly[40]on politics，while Cuthfert，who had been prone to clip his coupons and let the commonwealth jog on as best it might，either ignored the subject or delivered himself of startling epigrams[41].But the clerk was too obtuse to appreciate the clever shaping of thought，and this waste of ammunition irritated Cuthfert.He had been used to blinding people by his brilliancy，and it worked him quite a hardship，this loss of an audience.He felt personally aggrieved[42]and unconsciously held his muttonhead companion responsible for it.
Save existence，they had nothing in common—came in touch on no single point.Weatherbee was a clerk who had known naught but clerking all his life；Cuthfert was a master of arts，a dabbler[43]in oils，and had written not a little.The one was a lower-class man who considered himself a gentleman，and the other was a gentleman who knew himself to be such.From this it may be remarked that a man can be a gentleman without possessing the first instinct of true comradeship.The clerk was as sensuous as the other was aesthetic，and his love adventures，told at great length and chiefly coined from his imagination，affected the supersensitive[44]master of arts in the same way as so many whiffs of sewer gas.He deemed the clerk a filthy[45]，uncultured brute，whose place was in the muck with the swine，and told him so；and he was reciprocally[46]informed that he was a milk-and-water sissy and a cad.Weatherbee could not have defined‘cad’for his life；but it satisfied its purpose，which after all seems the main point in life.
Weatherbee flatted every third note and sang such songs as‘The Boston Burglar’and‘the Handsome Cabin Boy，’for hours at a time，while Cuthfert wept with rage，till he could stand it no longer and fled into the outer cold.But there was no escape.The intense frost could not be endured for long at a time，and the little cabin crowded them—beds，stove，table，and all—into a space of ten by twelve.The very presence of either became a personal affront[47]to the other，and they lapsed into sullen silences which increased in length and strength as the days went by.Occasionally，the flash of an eye or the curl of a lip got the better of them，though they strove to wholly ignore each other during these mute periods.And a great wonder sprang up in the breast of each，as to how God had ever come to create the other.
With little to do，time became an intolerable burden to them.This naturally made them still lazier.They sank into a physical lethargy[48]which there was no escaping，and which made them rebel at the performance of the smallest chore.One morning when it was his turn to cook the common breakfast，Weatherbee rolled out of his blankets，and to the snoring of his companion，lighted first the slushlamp and then the fire.The kettles were frozen hard，and there was no water in the cabin with which to wash.But he did not mind that.Waiting for it to thaw，he sliced the bacon and plunged into the hateful task of bread-making.Cuthfert had been slyly watching through his half-closed lids.Consequently there was a scene，in which they fervently[49]blessed each other，and agreed，henceforth，that each do his own cooking.A week later，Cuthfert neglected his morning ablutions[50]，but none the less complacently[51]ate the meal which he had cooked.Weatherbee grinned.After that the foolish custom of washing passed out of their lives.
As the sugar-pile and other little luxuries dwindled[52]，they began to be afraid they were not getting their proper shares，and in order that they might not be robbed，they fell to gorging themselves.The luxuries suffered in this gluttonous contest，as did also the men.In the absence of fresh vegetables and exercise，their blood became impoverished[53]，and a loathsome，purplish rash crept over their bodies.Yet they refused to heed the warning.Next，their muscles and joints began to swell，the flesh turning black，while their mouths，gums，and lips took on the color of rich cream.Instead of being drawn together by their misery，each gloated over the other's symptoms as the scurvy took its course.
They lost all regard for personal appearance，and for that matter，common decency[54].The cabin became a pigpen，and never once were the beds made or fresh pine boughs laid underneath.Yet they could not keep to their blankets，as they would have wished；for the frost was inexorable，and the fire box consumed much fuel.The hair of their heads and faces grew long and shaggy，while their garments would have disgusted a ragpicker[55].But they did not care.They were sick，and there was no one to see；besides，it was very painful to move about.
To all this was added a new trouble—the Fear of the North.This Fear was the joint child of the Great Cold and the Great Silence，and was born in the darkness of December，when the sun dipped below the horizon for good.It affected them according to their natures.Weatherbee fell prey to the grosser superstitions[56]，and did his best to resurrect[57]the spirits which slept in the forgotten graves.It was a fascinating thing，and in his dreams they came to him from out of the cold，and snuggled into his blankets，and told him of their toils and troubles ere they died.He shrank away from the clammy[58]contact as they drew closer and twined their frozen limbs about him，and when they whispered in his ear of things to come，the cabin rang with his frightened shrieks.Cuthfert did not understand—for they no longer spoke—and when thus awakened he invariably grabbed for his revolver.Then he would sit up in bed，shivering nervously，with the weapon trained on the unconscious dreamer.Cuthfert deemed the man going mad，and so came to fear for his life.
His own malady[59]assumed a less concrete form.The mysterious artisan[60]who had laid the cabin，log by log，had pegged a wind-vane to the ridgepole.Cuthfert noticed it always pointed south，and one day，irritated by its steadfastness of purpose，he turned it toward the east.He watched eagerly，but never a breath came by to disturb it.Then he turned the vane to the north，swearing never again to touch it till the wind did blow.But the air frightened him with its unearthly[61]calm，and he often rose in the middle of the night to see if the vane had veered—ten degrees would have satisfied him.But no，it poised above him as unchangeable as fate.His imagination ran riot，till it became to him a fetish.Sometimes he followed the path it pointed across the dismal dominions，and allowed his soul to become saturated with the Fear.He dwelt upon the unseen and the unknown till the burden of eternity appeared to be crushing him.Everything in the Northland had that crushing effect—the absence of life and motion；the darkness；the infinite peace of the brooding land；the ghastly[62]silence，which made the echo of each heartbeat a sacrilege；the solemn forest which seemed to guard an awful，inexpressible something，which neither word nor thought could compass.
The world he had so recently left，with its busy nations and great enterprises，seemed very far away.Recollections occasionally obtruded—recollections of marts and galleries and crowded thoroughfares[63]，of evening dress and social functions，of good men and dear women he had known—but they were dim memories of a life he had lived long centuries agone，on some other planet.This phantasm[64]was the Reality.Standing beneath the windvane，his eyes fixed on the polar skies，he could not bring himself to realize that the Southland really existed，that at that very moment it was a-roar with life and action.There was no Southland，no men being born of women，no giving and taking in marriage.Beyond his bleak skyline there stretched vast solitudes[65]，and beyond these still vaster solitudes.There were no lands of sunshine，heavy with the perfume of flowers.Such things were only old dreams of paradise.The sunlands of the West and the spicelands of the East，the smiling Arcadias and blissful Islands of the Blest—ha！ha！His laughter split the void and shocked him with its unwonted sound.There was no sun.This was the Universe，dead and cold and dark，and he its only citizen.Weatherbee？At such moments Weatherbee did not count.He was a Caliban，a monstrous phantom，fettered to him for untold ages，the penalty of some forgotten crime.
He lived with Death among the dead，emasculated by the sense of his own insignificance[66]，crushed by the passive mastery of the slumbering ages.The magnitude of all things appalled him.Everything partook of the superlative[67]save himself—the perfect cessation of wind and motion，the immensity of the snow-covered wildness，the height of the sky and the depth of the silence.That windvane—if it would only move.If a thunderbolt[68]would fall，or the forest flare up in flame.The rolling up of the heavens as a scroll，the crash of Doom—anything，anything！But no，nothing moved；the Silence crowded in，and the Fear of the North laid icy fingers on his heart.
Once，like another Crusoe，by the edge of the river he came upon a track—the faint tracery of a snowshoe rabbit on the delicate snow-crust.It was a revelation.There was life in the Northland.He would follow it，look upon it，gloat over it.He forgot his swollen muscles，plunging through the deep snow in an ecstasy[69]of anticipation.The forest swallowed him up，and the brief midday twilight vanished；but he pursued his quest till exhausted nature asserted itself and laid him helpless in the snow.There he groaned and cursed his folly，and knew the track to be the fancy of his brain；and late that night he dragged himself into the cabin on hands and knees，his cheeks frozen and a strange numbness[70]about his feet.Weatherbee grinned malevolently[71]，but made no offer to help him.He thrust needles into his toes and thawed them out by the stove.A week later mortification set in.
But the clerk had his own troubles.The dead men came out of their graves more frequently now,and rarely left him,waking or sleeping.He grew to wait and dread their coming,never passing the twin cairns without a shudder.One night they came to him in his sleep and led him forth to an appointed task.Frightened into inarticulate horror,he awoke between the heaps of stones and fled wildly to the cabin.But he had lain there for some time,for his feet and cheeks were also frozen.
Sometimes he became frantic[72]at their insistent presence，and danced about the cabin，cutting the empty air with an axe，and smashing everything within reach.During these ghostly encounters，Cuthfert huddled into his blankets and followed the madman about with a cocked revolver，ready to shoot him if he came too near.But，recovering from one of these spells，the clerk noticed the weapon trained upon him.His suspicions were aroused，and thenceforth he，too，lived in fear of his life.They watched each other closely after that，and faced about in startled fright whenever either passed behind the other's back.The apprehensiveness became a mania which controlled them even in their sleep.Through mutual[73]fear they tacitly let the slush-lamp burn all night，and saw to a plentiful supply of bacon-grease before retiring.The slightest movement on the part of one was sufficient to arouse the other，and many a still watch their gazes countered as they shook beneath their blankets with fingers on the trigger-guards.
What with the Fear of the North，the mental strain，and the ravages of the disease，they lost all semblance[74]of humanity，taking on the appearance of wild beasts，hunted and desperate.Their cheeks and noses，as an aftermath[75]of the freezing，had turned black.Their frozen toes had begun to drop away at the first and second joints.Every movement brought pain，but the fire box was insatiable[76]，wringing a ransom of torture from their miserable bodies.Day in，day out，it demanded its food—a veritable[77]pound of flesh—and they dragged themselves into the forest to chop wood on their knees.Once，crawling thus in search of dry sticks，unknown to each other they entered a thicket from opposite sides.Suddenly，without warning，two peering death's-heads confronted each other.Suffering had so transformed them that recognition was impossible.They sprang to their feet，shrieking with terror，and dashed away on their mangled stumps；and falling at the cabin's door，they clawed and scratched like demons till they discovered their mistake.
Occasionally they lapsed normal，and during one of these sane intervals，the chief bone of contention，the sugar，had been divided equally between them.They guarded their separate sacks，stored up in the cache，with jealous eyes；for there were but a few cupfuls left，and they were totally devoid of faith in each other.But one day Cuthfert made a mistake.Hardly able to move，sick with pain，with his head swimming and eyes blinded，he crept into the cache，sugar canister[78]in hand，and mistook Weatherbee's sack for his own.
January had been born but a few days when this occurred.The sun had some time since passed its lowest southern declination[79]，and at meridian now threw flaunting streaks of yellow light upon the northern sky.On the day following his mistake with the sugarbag，Cuthfert found himself feeling better，both in body and in spirit.As noontime drew near and the day brightened，he dragged himself outside to feast on the evanescent[80]glow，which was to him an earnest of the sun's future intentions.Weatherbee was also feeling somewhat better，and crawled out beside him.They propped themselves in the snow beneath the moveless wind-vane，and waited.
The stillness of death was about them.In other climes，when nature falls into such moods，there is a subdued[81]air of expectancy，a waiting for some small voice to take up the broken strain.Not so in the North.The two men had lived seeming eons in this ghostly peace.They could remember no song of the past；they could conjure no song of the future.This unearthly calm had always been—the tranquil silence of eternity.
Their eyes were fixed upon the north.Unseen，behind their backs，behind the towering mountains to the south，the sun swept toward the zenith of another sky than theirs.Sole spectators of the mighty canvas，they watched the false dawn slowly grow.A faint flame began to glow and smoulder[82].It deepened in intensity，ringing the changes of reddish-yellow，purple，and saffron.So bright did it become that Cuthfert thought the sun must surely be behind it—a miracle，the sun rising in the north！Suddenly，without warning and without fading，the canvas was swept clean.There was no color in the sky.The light had gone out of the day.They caught their breaths in halfsobs.But lo！the air was aglint with particles of scintillating[83]frost，and there，to the north，the wind-vane lay in vague outline of the snow.A shadow！A shadow！It was exactly midday.They jerked their heads hurriedly to the south.A golden rim peeped over the mountain's snowy shoulder，smiled upon them an instant，then dipped from sight again.
There were tears in their eyes as they sought each other.A strange softening came over them.They felt irresistibly drawn toward each other.The sun was coming back again.It would be with them tomorrow，and the next day，and the next.And it would stay longer every visit，and a time would come when it would ride their heaven day and night，never once dropping below the skyline[84].There would be no night.The ice-locked winter would be broken；the winds would blow and the forests answer；the land would bathe in the blessed sunshine，and life renew.Hand in hand，they would quit this horrid dream and journey back to the Southland.They lurched blindly forward，and their hands met—their poor maimed hands，swollen and distorted beneath their mittens.
But the promise was destined to remain unfulfilled.The Northland is the Northland,and men work out their souls by strange rules,which other men,who have not journeyed into far countries,cannot come to understand.
An hour later，Cuthfert put a pan of bread into the oven，and fell to speculating[85]on what the surgeons could do with his feet when he got back.Home did not seem so very far away now.Weatherbee was rummaging in the cache.Of a sudden，he raised a whirlwind of blasphemy，which in turn ceased with startling abruptness.The other man had robbed his sugar-sack.Still，things might have happened differently，had not the two dead men come out from under the stones and hushed the hot words in his throat.They led him quite gently from the cache，which he forgot to close.That consummation[86]was reached；that something they had whispered to him in his dreams was about to happen.They guided him gently，very gently，to the woodpile，where they put the axe in his hands.Then they helped him shove open the cabin door，and he felt sure they shut it after him—at least he heard it slam and the latch fall sharply into place.And he knew they were waiting just without，waiting for him to do his task.
‘Carter!I say,Carter!’
Percy Cuthfert was frightened at the look on the clerk's face,and he made haste to put the table between them.
Carter Weatherbee followed，without haste and without enthusiasm.There was neither pity nor passion in his face，but rather the patient，stolid[87]look of one who has certain work to do and goes about it methodically.
‘I say,what's the matter?’
The clerk dodged back,cutting off his retreat to the door,but never opening his mouth.
‘I say,Carter,I say;let's talk.There's a good chap.’
The master of arts was thinking rapidly，now，shaping a skillful flank movement on the bed where his Smith & Wesson lay.Keeping his eyes on the madman，he rolled backward on the bunk，at the same time clutching the pistol[88].
‘Carter!’
The powder flashed full in Weatherbee's face，but he swung his weapon and leaped forward.The axe bit deeply at the base of the spine，and Percy Cuthfert felt all consciousness of his lower limbs leave him.Then the clerk fell heavily upon him，clutching him by the throat with feeble fingers.The sharp bite of the axe had caused Cuthfert to drop the pistol，and as his lungs panted for release，he fumbled[89]aimlessly for it among the blankets.Then he remembered.He slid a hand up the clerk's belt to the sheath-knife；and they drew very close to each other in that last clinch.
Percy Cuthfert felt his strength leave him.The lower portion of his body was useless,The inert weight of Weatherbee crushed him—crushed him and pinned him there like a bear under a trap.The cabin became filled with a familiar odor,and he knew the bread to be burning.Yet what did it matter?He would never need it.And there were all of six cupfuls of sugar in the cache—if he had foreseen this he would not have been so saving the last several days.Would the wind-vane ever move?Why not'Had he not seen the sun today?He would go and see.No;it was impossible to move.He had not thought the clerk so heavy a man.
How quickly the cabin cooled！The fire must be out.The cold was forcing in.It must be below zero already，and the ice creeping up the inside of the door.He could not see it，but his past experience enabled him to gauge[90]its progress by the cabin's temperature.The lower hinge must be white ere now.Would the tale of this ever reach the world？How would his friends take it？They would read it over their coffee，most likely，and talk it over at the clubs.He could see them very clearly，‘Poor Old Cuthfert，’they murmured；‘not such a bad sort of a chap，after all.’He smiled at their eulogies，and passed on in search of a Turkish bath.It was the same old crowd upon the streets.Strange，they did not notice his moosehide moccasins and tattered German socks！He would take a cab.And after the bath a shave would not be bad.No；he would eat first.Steak，and potatoes，and green things how fresh it all was！And what was that？Squares of honey，streaming liquid amber！But why did they bring so much？Ha！ha！he could never eat it all.Shine！Why certainly.He put his foot on the box.The bootblack looked curiously up at him，and he remembered his moosehide moccasins and went away hastily.
Hark!The wind-vane must be surely spinning.No;a mere singing in his ears.That was all—a mere singing.The ice must have passed the latch by now.More likely the upper hinge was covered.Between the moss-chinked roof-poles,little points of frost began to appear.How slowly they grew!No;not so slowly.There was a new one,and there another.Two—three—four;they were coming too fast to count.There were two growing together.And there,a third had joined them.Why,there were no more spots.They had run together and formed a sheet.
Well,he would have company.If Gabriel ever broke the silence of the North,they would stand together,hand in hand,before the great White Throne.And God would judge them,God would judge them!
Then Percy Cuthfert closed his eyes and dropped off to sleep.TO THE MAN ON THE TRAIL.
‘DUMP IT IN.’
‘But I say,Kid,isn't that going it a little too strong’Whisky and alcohol's bad enough;but when it comes to brandy and pepper sauce and-’
‘Dump it in.Who's making this punch，anyway？’And Malemute Kid smiled benignantly[91]through the clouds of steam.‘By the time you've been in this country as long as I have，my son，and lived on rabbit tracks and salmon belly，you'll learn that Christmas comes only once per annum.And a Christmas without punch is sinking a hole to bedrock with nary a pay streak.’
‘Stack up on that fer a high cyard,’approved Big Jim Belden,who had come down from his claim on Mazy May to spend Christmas,and who,as everyone knew,had been living the two months past on straight moose meat.‘Hain't fergot the hooch we-uns made on the Tanana,hey yeh?’
‘Well,I guess yes.Boys,it would have done your hearts good to see that whole tribe fighting drunk—and all because of a glorious ferment of sugar and sour dough.That was before your time,’Malemute Kid said as he turned to Stanley Prince,a young mining expert who had been in two years.‘No white women in the country then,and Mason wanted to get married.Ruth's father was chief of the Tananas,and objected,like the rest of the tribe.Stiff?Why,I used my last pound of sugar;finest work in that line I ever did in my life.You should have seen the chase,down the river and across the portage.’
‘But the squaw？’asked Louis Savoy，the tall French Canadian，becoming interested；for he had heard of this wild deed when at Forty Mile the preceding[92]winter.
Then Malemute Kid，who was a born raconteur[93]，told the unvarnished[94]tale of the Northland Lochinvar.More than one rough adventurer of the North felt his heartstrings[95]draw closer and experienced vague yearnings for the sunnier pastures of the Southland，where life promised something more than a barren struggle with cold and death.
‘We struck the Yukon just behind the first ice run,’he concluded,‘and the tribe only a quarter of an hour behind.But that saved us;for the second run broke the jam above and shut them out.When they finally got into Nuklukyeto,the whole post was ready for them.And as to the forgathering,ask Father Roubeau here:he performed the ceremony.’
The Jesuit took the pipe from his lips but could only express his gratification[96]with patriarchal[97]smiles，while Protestant and Catholic vigorously applauded.
‘By gar!’ejaculated Louis Savoy,who seemed overcome by the romance of it.‘La petite squaw:mon Mason brav.By gar!’
Then,as the first tin cups of punch went round,Bettles the Unquenchable sprang to his feet and struck up his favorite drinking song:
‘There's Henry Ward Beecher And Sunday-school teachers，All drink of the sassafras root；But you bet all the same，If it had its right name，It's the juice of the forbidden fruit.’‘Oh，the juice of the forbidden fruit，’roared out the bacchanalian[98]chorus，‘Oh，the juice of the forbidden fruit；But you bet all the same，If it had its right name，It's the juice of the forbidden fruit.’
Malemute Kid's frightful concoction did its work;the men of the camps and trails unbent in its genial glow,and jest and song and tales of past adventure went round the board.Aliens from a dozen lands,they toasted each and all.It was the Englishman,Prince,who pledged‘Uncle Sam,the precocious infant of the New World’;the Yankee,Bettles,who drank to‘The Queen,God bless her’;and together,Savoy and Meyers,the German trader,clanged their cups to Alsace and Lorraine.
Then Malemute Kid arose,cup in hand,and glanced at the greased-paper window,where the frost stood full three inches thick.‘A health to the man on trail this night;may his grub hold out;may his dogs keep their legs;may his matches never miss fire.’
Crack！Crack！heard the familiar music of the dog whip，the whining howl of the Malemutes，and the crunch of a sled as it drew up to the cabin.Conversation languished[99]while they waited the issue.
‘An old-timer;cares for his dogs and then himself,’whispered Malemute Kid to Prince as they listened to the snapping jaws and the wolfish snarls and yelps of pain which proclaimed to their practiced ears that the stranger was beating back their dogs while he fed his own.
Then came the expected knock，sharp and confident，and the stranger entered.Dazzled by the light，he hesitated a moment at the door，giving to all a chance for scrutiny.He was a striking personage，and a most picturesque one，in his Arctic dress of wool and fur.Standing six foot two or three，with proportionate breadth of shoulders and depth of chest，his smooth-shaven face nipped by the cold to a gleaming pink，his long lashes and eyebrows white with ice，and the ear and neck flaps of his great wolfskin cap loosely raised，he seemed，of a verity，the Frost King，just stepped in out of the night.Clasped outside his Mackinaw jacket，a beaded belt held two large Colt's revolvers[100]and a hunting knife，while he carried，in addition to the inevitable dog whip，a smokeless rifle of the largest bore and latest pattern.As he came forward，for all his step was firm and elastic，they could see that fatigue bore heavily upon him.
An awkward silence had fallen，but his hearty‘What cheer，my lads？’put them quickly at ease，and the next instant Malemute Kid and he had gripped hands.Though they had never met，each had heard of the other，and the recognition[101]was mutual.A sweeping introduction and a mug of punch were forced upon him before he could explain his errand.
How long since that basket sled,with three men and eight dogs,passed?’he asked.
‘An even two days ahead.Are you after them?’
‘Yes;my team.Run them off under my very nose,the cusses.I've gained two days on them already—pick them up on the next run.’
‘Reckon they'll show spunk?’asked Belden,in order to keep up the conversation,for Malemute Kid already had the coffeepot on and was busily frying bacon and moose meat.
The stranger significantly tapped his revolvers.
‘When'd yeh leave Dawson?’
‘Twelve o'clock.’
‘Last night?’—as a matter of course.
‘Today.’
A murmur of surprise passed round the circle.And well it might;for it was just midnight,and seventy-five miles of rough river trail was not to be sneered at for a twelve hours'run.
The talk soon became impersonal，however，harking back to the trails of childhood.As the young stranger ate of the rude fare Malemute Kid attentively studied his face.Nor was he long in deciding that it was fair，honest，and open，and that he liked it.Still youthful，the lines had been firmly traced by toil and hardship.Though genial in conversation，and mild when at rest，the blue eyes gave promise of the hard steel-glitter which comes when called into action，especially against odds.The heavy jaw and square-cut chin demonstrated[102]rugged pertinacity[103]and indomitability.Nor，though the attributes of the lion were there，was there wanting the certain softness，the hint of womanliness，which bespoke[104]the emotional nature.
‘So thet's how me an'the ol'woman got spliced,’said Belden,concluding the exciting tale of his courtship.‘“Here we be,Dad,”sez she.“An'may yeh be damned,”sez he to her,an'then to me,“Jim,yeh-yeh git outen them good duds o'yourn;I want a right peart slice o'thet forty acre plowed'fore dinner.”An'then he sort o'sniffled an'kissed her.An'I was thet happy—but he seen me an'roars out,“Yeh,Jim!’An'yeh bet I dusted fer the barn.’
‘Any kids waiting for you back in the States?’asked the stranger.
‘Nope；Sal died'fore any come.Thet's why I'm here.’Belden abstractedly[105]began to light his pipe，which had failed to go out，and then brightened up with，‘How'bout yerself，stranger—married man？’
For reply，he opened his watch，slipped it from the thong which served for a chain，and passed it over.Belden picked up the slush lamp，surveyed the inside of the case critically，and，swearing admiringly to himself，handed it over to Louis Savoy.With numerous‘By gars！’he finally surrendered it to Prince，and they noticed that his hands trembled and his eyes took on a peculiar softness.And so it passed from horny hand to horny hand—the pasted photograph of a woman，the clinging kind that such men fancy，with a babe at the breast.Those who had not yet seen the wonder were keen with curiosity；those who had became silent and retrospective[106].They could face the pinch of famine，the grip of scurvy，or the quick death by field or flood；but the pictured semblance[107]of a stranger woman and child made women and children of them all.
‘Never have seen the youngster yet—he's a boy，she says，and two years old，’said the stranger as he received the treasure back.A lingering moment he gazed upon it，then snapped the case and turned away，but not quick enough to hide the restrained[108]rush of tears.
Malemute Kid led him to a bunk and bade him turn in.
‘Call me at four sharp.Don't fail me,’were his last words,and a moment later he was breathing in the heaviness of exhausted sleep.
‘By Jove！He's a plucky[109]chap，’commented Prince.‘Three hours'sleep after seventy-five miles with the dogs，and then the trail again.Who is he，Kid？’
‘Jack Westondale.Been in going on three years,with nothing but the name of working like a horse,and any amount of bad luck to his credit.I never knew him,but Sitka Charley told me about him.’
‘It seems hard that a man with a sweet young wife like his should be putting in his years in this Godforsaken[110]hole，where every year counts two on the outside.’
‘The trouble with him is clean grit and stubbornness.He's cleaned up twice with a stake,but lost it both times.’
Here the conversation was broken off by an uproar from Bettles，for the effect had begun to wear away.And soon the bleak years of monotonous grub and deadening toil were being forgotten in rough merriment.Malemute Kid alone seemed unable to lose himself，and cast many an anxious look at his watch.Once he put on his mittens and beaver-skin cap，and，leaving the cabin，fell to rummaging[111]about in the cache.
Nor could he wait the hour designated；for he was fifteen minutes ahead of time in rousing his guest.The young giant had stiffened badly，and brisk rubbing was necessary to bring him to his feet.He tottered painfully out of the cabin，to find his dogs harnessed and everything ready for the start.The company wished him good luck and a short chase，while Father Roubeau，hurriedly blessing him，led the stampede[112]for the cabin；and small wonder，for it is not good to face seventy-four degrees below zero with naked ears and hands.
Malemute Kid saw him to the main trail,and there,gripping his hand heartily,gave him advice.
‘You'll find a hundred pounds of salmon eggs on the sled,’he said.‘The dogs will go as far on that as with one hundred and fifty of fish,and you can't get dog food at Pelly,as you probably expected.’The stranger started,and his eyes flashed,but he did not interrupt.‘You can't get an ounce of food for dog or man till you reach Five Fingers,and that's a stiff two hundred miles.Watch out for open water on the Thirty Mile River,and be sure you take the big cutoff above Le Barge.’
‘How did you know it?Surely the news can't be ahead of me already?’
‘I don't know it；and what's more，I don't want to know it.But you never owned that team you're chasing.Sitka Charley sold it to them last spring.But he sized you up to me as square once，and I believe him.I've seen your face；I like it.And I've seen—why，damn[113]you，hit the high places for salt water and that wife of yours，and-’Here the Kid unmittened and jerked out his sack.
‘No；I don't need it，’and the tears froze on his cheeks as he convulsively[114]gripped Malemute Kid's hand.
‘Then don't spare the dogs;cut them out of the traces as fast as they drop;buy them,and think they're cheap at ten dollars a pound.You can get them at Five Fingers,Little Salmon,and Hootalinqua.And watch out for wet feet,’was his parting advice.‘Keep a-traveling up to twenty-five,but if it gets below that,build a fire and change your socks.’
Fifteen minutes had barely elapsed when the jingle of bells announced new arrivals.The door opened,and a mounted policeman of the Northwest Territory entered,followed by two half-breed dog drivers.Like Westondale,they were heavily armed and showed signs of fatigue.The half-breeds had been borne to the trail and bore it easily;but the young policeman was badly exhausted.Still,the dogged obstinacy of his race held him to the pace he had set,and would hold him till he dropped in his tracks.
‘When did Westondale pull out？’he asked.‘He stopped here，didn't he？’This was supererogatory[115]，for the tracks told their own tale too well.
Malemute Kid had caught Belden's eye，and he，scenting the wind，replied evasively[116]，‘A right peart while back.’
‘Come，my man；speak up，’the policeman admonished[117].
‘Yeh seem to want him right smart.Hez he ben gittin'cantankerous[118]down Dawson way？’
‘Held up Harry McFarland's for forty thousand;exchanged it at the P.C.store for a check on Seattle;and who's to stop the cashing of it if we don't overtake him?When did he pull out?’
Every eye suppressed its excitement,for Malemute Kid had given the cue,and the young officer encountered wooden faces on every hand.
Striding over to Prince，he put the question to him.Though it hurt him，gazing into the frank，earnest face.of his fellow countryman，he replied inconsequentially[119]on the state of the trail.
Then he espied Father Roubeau,who could not lie.‘A quarter of an hour ago,’the priest answered;‘but he had four hours'rest for himself and dogs.’
‘Fifteen minutes'start,and he's fresh!My God!’The poor fellow staggered back,half fainting from exhaustion and disappointment,murmuring something about the run from Dawson in ten hours and the dogs being played out.
Malemute Kid forced a mug of punch upon him；then he turned for the door，ordering the dog drivers to follow.But the warmth and promise of rest were too tempting，and they objected strenuously[120].The Kid was conversant with their French patois，and followed it anxiously.
They swore that the dogs were gone up;that Siwash and Babette would have to be shot before the first mile was covered;that the rest were almost as bad;and that it would be better for all hands to rest up.
‘Lend me five dogs?’he asked,turning to Malemute Kid.
But the Kid shook his head.
‘I'll sign a check on Captain Constantine for five thousand—here's my papers—I'm authorized to draw at my own discretion.’
Again the silent refusal.
‘Then I'll requisition them in the name of the Queen.’
Smiling incredulously，the Kid glanced at his wellstocked arsenal，and the Englishman，realizing his impotency[121]，turned for the door.But the dog drivers still objecting，he whirled upon them fiercely，calling them women and curs.The swart face of the older half-breed flushed angrily as he drew himself up and promised in good，round terms that he would travel his leader off his legs，and would then be delighted to plant him in the snow.
The young officer—and it required his whole will—walked steadily to the door，exhibiting a freshness he did not possess.But they all knew and appreciated his proud effort；nor could he veil the twinges of agony that shot across his face.Covered with frost，the dogs were curled up in the snow，and it was almost impossible to get them to their feet.The poor brutes whined under the stinging la[122]sh，for the dog drivers were angry and cruel；nor till Babette，the leader，was cut from the traces，could they break out the sled and get under way.
‘A dirty scoundrel[123]and a liar！’‘By gar！Him no good！’‘A thief！’‘Worse than an Indian！’It was evident that they were angry—first at the way they had been deceived；and second at the outraged ethics of the Northland，where honesty，above all，was man's prime jewel.‘An'we gave the cuss a hand，after knowin'what he'd did.’All eyes turned accusingly[124]upon Malemute Kid，who rose from the corner where he had been making Babette comfortable，and silently emptied the bowl for a final round of punch.
‘It's a cold night,boys—a bitter cold night,’was the irrelevant commencement of his defense.‘You've all traveled trail,and know what that stands for.Don't jump a dog when he's down.You've only heard one side.A whiter man than Jack Westondale never ate from the same pot nor stretched blanket with you or me.Last fall he gave his whole clean-up,forty thousand,to Joe Castrell,to buy in on Dominion.Today he'd be a millionaire.But,while he stayed behind at Circle City,taking care of his partner with the scurvy,what does Castell do?Goes into Mc Farland's,jumps the limit,and drops the whole sack.Found him dead in the snow the next day.And poor Jack laying his plans to go out this winter to his wife and the boy he's never seen.You'll notice he took exactly what his partner lost—forty thousand.Well,he's gone out;and what are you going to do about it?’
The Kid glanced round the circle of his judges，noted the softening of their faces，then raised his mug aloft[125].‘So a health to the man on trail this night；may his grub hold out；may his dogs keep their legs；may his matches never miss fire.God prosper him；good luck go with him；and’
‘Confusion to the Mounted Police!’cried Bettles,to the crash of the empty cups.
[1]hitherto adv.迄今，至今
[2]restriction n.限制，约束
[3]primordial adj.原始的
[4]forbearance n.自制，忍耐
[5]snug adj.暖和的，舒适的，安静的
[6]corresponding adj.相应的，通讯的
[7]disdain vt.蔑视，鄙弃n.轻蔑，以高傲的态度对待
[8]vicissitudes n.兴衰；枯荣；变迁
[9]blissful adj.有福的
[10]ominously adv.恶兆地，不吉利地
[11]ascendant n.优势，运星，运道，支配力adj.上升的，优越的
[12]embark on v.从事，着手
[13]sentimentality n.多愁善感，感伤癖
[14]disreputable adj.声名狼藉的，破烂不堪的
[15]delicacy n.微妙
[16]momentum n.动力，要素
[17]bateau n.小舟
[18]elusive adj.难懂的，难捉摸的，易忘的
[19]solstice n.至，至日，至点
[20]disembogue v.注入，开航
[21]arduous adj.费劲的，辛勤的，险峻的
[22]mutinous adj.暴动的，反抗的
[23]incidentally adv.附带地，顺便提及
[24]bacon n.咸肉，熏肉
[25]ludicrous adj.可笑的，滑稽的，愚蠢的
[26]conceive vi.怀孕，考虑，设想vt.构思，以为，持有
[27]incarnation n.赋予肉体，具人形，化身
[28]compromise n.妥协，折衷v.妥协，折衷，危及……的安全
[29]belligerently adv.好战地，交战地
[30]sentiment n.情操，情感，情绪，观点，多愁善感，感情
[31]apprehensively adv.担心地
[32]pathetically adv.哀婉动人的，可怜地，情绪上地
[33]pregnant adj.重要的，富有意义的，怀孕的，孕育的
[34]badinage n.开玩笑，揶揄v.打趣
[35]bulldoze v.威吓，欺负
[36]inexhaustible adj.无穷无尽的
[37]judiciously adv.明智地
[38]disastrous adj.损失惨重的，悲伤的
[39]inroad n.袭击
[40]blatantly adv.喧闹地，看穿了地
[41]epigram n.警句，讽刺短诗
[42]aggrieved adj.受虐待的，权利受到不法侵害的，抱不平的
[43]dabbler n.戏水者，业余家
[44]supersensitive adj.过敏的
[45]filthy adj.不洁的，污秽的，丑恶的
[46]reciprocally adv.相互地，相反地
[47]affront n.公开侮辱，轻蔑vt.公开侮辱，冒犯，面对
[48]lethargy n.无生气
[49]fervently adv.热心地，热诚地
[50]ablution n.清洗，洗身，沐浴
[51]complacently adv.满足地，自满地，沾沾自喜地
[52]dwindle v.缩小
[53]impoverished adj.穷困的，无力的，用尽了的
[54]decency n.庄重
[55]ragpicker n.拾破烂的人
[56]superstition n.迷信
[57]resurrect v.复兴
[58]clammy adj.湿粘的，湿冷的
[59]malady n.疾病
[60]artisan n.工匠，技工
[61]unearthly adj.非尘世的，神秘的，怪异的，理想的
[62]ghastly adj.苍白的，死人般的，可怕的，惊人的adv.可怖地，惨白地
[63]thoroughfare n.通路，大道
[64]phantasm n.幻觉
[65]solitude n.孤独
[66]insignificance n.无意义
[67]superlative adj.最高的
[68]thunderbolt n.霹雳，雷电，意外的灾难，突发事件
[69]ecstasy n.入迷
[70]numbness n.麻木，麻痹
[71]malevolently adv.有恶意地，坏心肠地
[72]frantic adj.狂乱的，疯狂的
[73]mutual adj.相互的，共有的
[74]semblance n.外表，伪装
[75]aftermath n.结果，后果
[76]insatiable adj.不知足的，贪求无厌的
[77]veritable adj.真正的，名符其实的
[78]canister n.小罐，筒
[79]declination n.偏差
[80]evanescent adj.渐消失的，易消散的，会凋零的
[81]subdued adj.屈服的，被抑制的，柔和的，减弱的
[82]smoulder v.潜伏
[83]scintillate v.发出火花，闪耀光芒
[84]skyline n.地平线，以天空为背景映出轮廓
[85]speculate vi.推测，思索，做投机买卖
[86]consummation n.完成，圆满成功，成就
[87]stolid adj.不易激动的，感觉迟钝的，神经麻木的
[88]pistol n.手枪
[89]fumble v.摸索
[90]gauge v.测量n.标准尺，规格，量规，量表
[91]benignantly adv.仁慈地，有益地，亲切地
[92]preceding adj.在前的，前述的
[93]raconteur n.健谈者，善谈者
[94]unvarnished adj.未涂漆的，无装饰的，质朴的，原样的
[95]heartstrings n.心弦
[96]gratification n.满意
[97]patriarchal adj.家长的，族长的
[98]bacchanalian adj.酒神节的，狂饮作乐的n.发酒疯的人
[99]languish vi.憔悴，凋萎，衰退，苦思
[100]revolver n.连发左轮手枪，旋转者，旋转式装置
[101]recognition n.赞誉，承认，重视，公认，赏识
[102]demonstrate vt.示范，证明，论证vi.示威
[103]pertinacity n.顽固
[104]bespoke vbl.预约，预订，显示
[105]abstractedly adv.心不在焉地，出神地
[106]retrospective adj.回顾的
[107]semblance n.外表，伪装
[108]restrained adj.受限制的，拘谨的，有限的
[109]plucky adj.有勇气的
[110]godforsaken adj.荒芜的；凄凉的
[111]rummage v.到处翻寻，搜出，检查n.翻箱倒柜的寻找，检查，零星杂物
[112]stampede n.惊跑v.惊跑
[113]damn v.谴责
[114]convulsively adv.痉挛性地
[115]supererogatory adj.额外的，超出职务的
[116]evasively adv.推托地，逃避地
[117]admonish vt.劝告，训诫，警告
[118]cantankerous adj.脾气坏的，爱吵架的，刚愎的，任性的
[119]inconsequentially adv.不合逻辑地，不合理地
[120]strenuously adv.奋发地，费力地
[121]impotency n.无力，性无能
[122]stinging adj.刺一样的，刺人的，激烈的
[123]scoundrel n.无赖，恶棍adj.卑鄙的
[124]accusingly adv.责难地
[125]aloft adv.在高处，在上