Where nature shows the rough hand, the sons of men are apt to respond with kindred roughness. The amenities² of life spring up only in mellow³ lands, where the sun is warm and the earth fat. The damp and soggy climate of Britain drives men to strong drink; the rosy⁴ Orient lures⁵ to the dream splendors⁶ of the lotus. The big-bodied, white-skinned northern dweller⁷, rude and ferocious⁸, bellows⁹ his anger uncouthly¹⁰ and drives a gross fist into the face of his foe¹¹. The supple¹² south-sojourner, silken of smile and lazy of gesture, waits, and does his work from behind, when no man looketh, gracefully¹³ and without offence. Their ends are one; the difference lies in their ways, and therein the climate, and the cumulative¹⁴ effect thereof, is the determining factor. Both are sinners, as men born of women have ever been; but the one does his sin openly, in the clear sight of God; the other—as though God could not see—veils his iniquity¹⁵ with shimmering¹⁶ fancies, hiding it like it were some splendid mystery.  
These be the ways of men, each as the sun shines upon him and the wind blows against him, according to his kind, and the seed of his father, and the milk of his mother. Each is the resultant of many forces which go to make a pressure mightier¹⁸ than he, and which moulds him in the predestined shape. But, with sound legs under him, he may run away, and meet with a new pressure. He may continue running, each new pressure prodding¹⁹ him as he goes, until he dies and his final form will be that predestined of the many pressures. An exchange of cradle-babes, and the base-born slave may wear the purple imperially, and the royal infant begs an alms as wheedlingly²⁰ or cringe to the lash²² as abjectly²³ as his meanest subject. A Chesterfield, with an empty belly²⁴, chancing upon good fare, will gorge²⁵ as faithfully as the swine in the next sty. And an Epicurus, in the dirt-igloo of the Eskimos, will wax eloquent²⁶ over the whale oil and walrus²⁷ blubber, or die.
 
Thus, in the young Northland, frosty and grim and menacing, men stripped off the sloth²⁸ of the south and gave battle greatly. And they stripped likewise much of the veneer²⁹ of civilization—all of its follies³⁰, most of its foibles, and perhaps a few of its virtues³¹. Maybe so; but they reserved the great traditions and at least lived frankly³², laughed honestly, and looked one another in the eyes.
 
And so it is not well for women, born south of fifty-three and reared gently, to knock loosely about the Northland, unless they be great of heart. They may be soft and tender and sensitive, possessed³³ of eyes which have not lost the lustre³⁴ and the wonder, and of ears used only to sweet sounds; but if their philosophy is sane³⁵ and stable, large enough to understand and to forgive, they will come to no harm and attain³⁶ comprehension. If not, they will see things and hear things which hurt, and they will suffer greatly, and lose faith in man—which is the greatest evil that may happen them. Such should be sedulously³⁸ cherished, and it were well to depute this to their men-folk, the nearer of kin¹ the better. In line, it were good policy to seek out a cabin on the hill overlooking Dawson, or—best of all—across the Yukon on the western bank. Let them not move abroad unheralded and unaccompanied; and the hillside back of the cabin may be recommended as a fit field for stretching muscles and breathing deeply, a place where their ears may remain undefiled by the harsh words of men who strive to the utmost.
 
Vance Corliss wiped the last tin dish and filed it away on the shelf, lighted his pipe, and rolled over on his back on the bunk³⁹ to contemplate⁴⁰ the moss⁴¹-chinked roof of his French Hill cabin. This French Hill cabin stood on the last dip of the hill into Eldorado Creek⁴², close to the main-travelled trail; and its one window blinked cheerily of nights at those who journeyed late.
 
The door was kicked open, and Del Bishop⁴³ staggered in with a load of fire-wood. His breath had so settled on his face in a white rime⁴⁴ that he could not speak. Such a condition was ever a hardship with the man, so he thrust his face forthwith into the quivering heat above the stove. In a trice the frost was started and the thawed⁴⁵ streamlets dancing madly on the white-hot surface beneath. Then the ice began to fall from is beard in chunks⁴⁶, rattling⁴⁷ on the lid-tops and simmering spitefully till spurted⁴⁸ upward in clouds of steam.
 
"And so you witness an actual phenomenon, illustrative of the three forms of matter," Vance laughed, mimicking⁴⁹ the monotonous⁵⁰ tones of the demonstrator; "solid, liquid, and vapor⁵¹. In another moment you will have the gas."
 
"Th—th—that's all very well," Bishop spluttered, wrestling with an obstructing⁵² piece of ice until it was wrenched⁵³ from his upper lip and slammed stoveward with a bang.
 
"How cold do you make it, Del? Fifty?"
 
"Fifty?" the pocket-miner demanded with unutterable scorn, wiping his face. "Quicksilver's been solid for hours, and it's been gittin' colder an' colder ever since. Fifty? I'll bet my new mittens⁵⁴ against your old moccasins that it ain't a notch⁵⁶ below seventy."
 
"Think so?"
 
"D'ye want to bet?"
 
Vance nodded laughingly.
 
"Centigrade or Fahrenheit⁵⁷?" Bishop asked, suddenly suspicious.
 
"Oh, well, if you want my old moccasins so badly," Vance rejoined, feigning⁵⁸ to be hurt by the other's lack of faith, "why, you can have them without betting."
 
Del snorted and flung himself down on the opposite bunk. "Think yer funny, don't you?" No answer forthcoming, he deemed the retort conclusive⁵⁹, rolled over, and fell to studying the moss chinks.
 
Fifteen minutes of this diversion sufficed. "Play you a rubber of crib before bed," he challenged across to the other bunk.
 
"I'll go you." Corliss got up, stretched, and moved the kerosene⁶⁰ lamp from the shelf to the table, "Think it will hold out?" he asked, surveying the oil-level through the cheap glass.
 
Bishop threw down the crib-board and cards, and measured the contents of the lamp with his eye. "Forgot to fill it, didn't I? Too late now. Do it to-morrow. It'll last the rubber out, sure."
 
Corliss took up the cards, but paused in the shuffling⁶¹. "We've a big trip before us, Del, about a month from now, the middle of March as near as I can plan it,—up the Stuart River to McQuestion; up McQuestion and back again down the Mayo; then across country to Mazy May, winding⁶² up at Henderson Creek—"
 
"On the Indian River?"
 
"No," Corliss replied, as he dealt the hands; "just below where the
Stuart taps the Yukon. And then back to Dawson before the ice breaks."
The pocket-miner's eyes sparkled. "Keep us hustlin'; but, say, it's a trip, isn't it! Hunch⁶³?"
 
"I've received word from the Parker outfit⁶⁴ on the Mayo, and McPherson isn't asleep on Henderson—you don't know him. They're keeping quiet, and of course one can't tell, but . . ."
 
Bishop nodded his head sagely⁶⁵, while Corliss turned the trump⁶⁶ he had cut. A sure vision of a "twenty-four" hand was dazzling him, when there was a sound of voices without and the door shook to a heavy knock.
 
"Come in!" he bawled⁶⁷. "An' don't make such a row about it! Look at that"—to Corliss, at the same time facing his hand—"fifteen-eight, fifteen-sixteen, and eight are twenty-four. Just my luck!"
 
Corliss started swiftly to his feet. Bishop jerked his head about. Two women and a man had staggered clumsily in through the door, and were standing⁶⁸ just inside, momentarily blinded by the light.
 
"By all the Prophets! Cornell!" The pocket-miner wrung⁶⁹ the man's hand and led him forward. "You recollect⁷⁰ Cornell, Corliss? Jake Cornell, Thirty-Seven and a Half Eldorado."
 
"How could I forget?" the engineer acknowledged warmly, shaking his hand. "That was a miserable⁷¹ night you put us up last fall, about as miserable as the moose-steak was good that you gave us for breakfast."
 
Jake Cornell, hirsute⁷² and cadaverous of aspect, nodded his head with emphasis and deposited a corpulent demijohn on the table. Again he nodded his head, and glared wildly about him. The stove caught his eye and he strode over to it, lifted a lid, and spat⁷³ out a mouthful of amber-colored juice. Another stride and he was back.
 
"'Course I recollect the night," he rumbled⁷⁴, the ice clattering⁷⁵ from his hairy jaws⁷⁶. "And I'm danged glad to see you, that's a fact." He seemed suddenly to remember himself, and added a little sheepishly, "The fact is, we're all danged glad to see you, ain't we, girls?" He twisted his head about and nodded his companions up. "Blanche, my dear, Mr. Corliss—hem³⁷—it gives me . . . hem . . . it gives me pleasure to make you acquainted. Cariboo Blanche, sir. Cariboo Blanche."
 
"Pleased to meet you." Cariboo Blanche put out a frank hand and looked him over keenly. She was a fair-featured, blondish woman, originally not unpleasing of appearance, but now with lines all deepened and hardened as on the faces of men who have endured much weather-beat.
 
Congratulating himself upon his social proficiency⁷⁷, Jake Cornell cleared his throat and marshalled the second woman to the front. "Mr. Corliss, the Virgin⁷⁸; I make you both acquainted. Hem!" in response to the query⁷⁹ in Vance's eyes—"Yes, the Virgin. That's all, just the Virgin."
 
She smiled and bowed, but did not shake hands. "A toff" was her secret comment upon the engineer; and from her limited experience she had been led to understand that it was not good form among "toffs" to shake hands.
 
Corliss fumbled⁸⁰ his hand, then bowed, and looked at her curiously⁸¹. She was a pretty, low-browed creature; darkly pretty, with a well-favored body, and for all that the type was mean, he could not escape the charm of her over-brimming vitality⁸². She seemed bursting with it, and every quick, spontaneous movement appeared to spring from very excess of red blood and superabundant energy.
 
"Pretty healthy proposition, ain't she?" Jake Cornell demanded, following his host's gaze with approval.
 
"None o' your gammon, Jake," the Virgin snapped back, with lip curled contemptuously for Vance's especial benefit. "I fancy it'd be more in keeping if you'd look to pore Blanche, there."
 
"Fact is, we're plum ding dong played out," Jake said. "An' Blanche went through the ice just down the trail, and her feet's like to freezin'."
 
Blanche smiled as Corliss piloted her to a stool by the fire, and her stern mouth gave no indication of the pain she was suffering. He turned away when the Virgin addressed herself to removing the wet footgear, while Bishop went rummaging⁸³ for socks and moccasins.
 
"Didn't go in more'n to the ankles," Cornell explained confidentially⁸⁵; "but that's plenty a night like this."
 
Corliss agreed with a nod of the head.
 
"Spotted⁸⁶ your light, and—hem—and so we come. Don't mind, do you?"
 
"Why, certainly not—"
 
"No intrudin'?"
 
Corliss reassured⁸⁷ him by laying hand on his shoulder and cordially pressing him to a seat. Blanche sighed luxuriously⁸⁸. Her wet stockings were stretched up and already steaming, and her feet basking⁸⁹ in the capacious warmth of Bishop's Siwash socks. Vance shoved the tobacco canister across, but Cornell pulled out a handful of cigars and passed them around.
 
"Uncommon⁹⁰ bad piece of trail just this side of the turn," he remarked stentoriously, at the same time flinging an eloquent glance at the demijohn. "Ice rotten from the springs and no sign till you're into it." Turning to the woman by the stove, "How're you feeling, Blanche?"
 
"Tony," she responded, stretching her body lazily and redisposing her feet; "though my legs ain't as limber as when we pulled out."
 
Looking to his host for consent, Cornell tilted⁹¹ the demijohn over his arm and partly filled the four tin mugs and an empty jelly glass.
 
"Wot's the matter with a toddy?" the Virgin broke in; "or a punch?"
 
"Got any lime juice?" she demanded of Corliss.
 
"You 'ave? Jolly!" She directed her dark eyes towards Del. "'Ere, you, cookie! Trot⁹² out your mixing-pan and sling⁹³ the kettle for 'ot water. Come on! All hands! Jake's treat, and I'll show you 'ow! Any sugar, Mr. Corliss? And nutmeg? Cinnamon, then? O.K. It'll do. Lively now, cookie!"
 
"Ain't she a peach?" Cornell confided⁹⁴ to Vance, watching her with mellow eyes as she stirred the steaming brew⁹⁵.
 
But the Virgin directed her attentions to the engineer. "Don't mind 'im, sir," she advised. "'E's more'n arf-gorn a'ready, a-'itting the jug⁹⁶ every blessed stop."
 
"Now, my dear—" Jake protested.
 
"Don............