"And there's five hundred Daylight's back in sixty days," he added aloud.
Billy Rawlins closed with the wager, and Bettles hugged Kearns ecstatically.
"By Yupiter, I ban take that bet," Olaf Henderson said, dragging Daylight away from Bettles and Kearns.
"Winner pays!" Daylight shouted, closing the wager.
"And I'm sure going to win, and sixty days is a long time between drinks, so I pay now.

Name your brand, you hoochinoos! Name your brand!" Bettles, a glass of whiskey in hand, climbed back on his chair, and swaying back and forth, sang the one song he knew:-- "O, it's Henry Ward Beecher And Sunday-school teachers All sing of the sassafras-root; But you bet all the same, If it had its right name It's the juice of the forbidden fruit." The crowd roared out the chorus:-- "But you bet all the same If it had its right name It's the juice of the forbidden fruit." Somebody opened the outer door.

A vague gray light filtered in.
"Burning daylight, burning daylight," some one called warningly.
Daylight paused for nothing, heading for the door and pulling down his ear-flaps.

Kama stood outside by the sled, a long, narrow affair, sixteen inches wide and seven and a half feet in length, its slatted bottom raised six inches above the steel-shod runners.

On it, lashed with thongs of moose-hide, were the light canvas bags that contained the mail, and the food and gear for dogs and men.