"And if you was a man?" he asked, his voice vibrant with kindness. The
three-cornered needle jammed in the damp leather, and he suspended work
for the moment.
"I'd be a man. I'd put the straps on my back and light out. I wouldn't
lay in camp here, with the Yukon like to freeze most any day, and the
goods not half over the portage. And you--you are men, and you sit here,
holding your hands, afraid of a little wind and wet. I tell you
straight, Yankee-men are made of different stuff. They'd be hitting the
trail for Dawson if they had to wade through hell-fire. And you, you--I
wish I was a man."
"I'm very glad, my dear, that you're not." Dick Humphries threw the
bight of the sail twine over the point of the needle and drew it clear
with a couple of deft turns and a jerk.
A snort of the gale dealt the tent a broad-handed slap as it hurtled
past, and the sleet rat-tat-tatted with snappy spite against the thin
canvas. The smoke, smothered in its exit, drove back through the fire-
box door, carrying with it the pungent odor of green spruce.
"Good Gawd! Why can't a woman listen to reason?" Tommy lifted his head
from the denser depths and turned upon her a pair of smoke-outraged eyes.
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