"We 'll pull out to-morrow, 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 from the Yukon stove-pipe. 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 won't work. We know that. 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 with prophecy.
* *