"Tell 'm it's on me, double dose, an' jest excuse me not drinkin' with you, fer I'm goin' to stay." The Klondike was throwing a thick flow of ice, partly mush and partly solid, and swept the boat out towards the middle of the Yukon.

They could see the struggle plainly from the bank,--four men standing up and poling a way through the jarring cakes.

A Yukon stove aboard was sending up a trailing pillar of blue smoke, and, as the boat drew closer, they could see a woman in the stern working the long steering-sweep.

At sight of this there was a snap and sparkle in Jacob Welse's eyes.

It was the first omen, and it was good, he thought.