‘Send Ruth here.I want to say good-by and tell her that she must think of the boy and not wait till I'm dead.She might refuse to go with you if I didn't.Goodby,old man;good-by.’
‘Kid!I say-a-sink a hole above the pup,next to the slide.I panned out forty cents on my shovel there.’
‘And,Kid!' He stooped lower to catch the last faint words,the dying man's surrender of his pride.'I'm sorry-for-you know-Carmen.' Leaving the girl crying softly over her man,Malemute Kid slipped into his parka and snowshoes,tucked his rifle under his arm,and crept away into the forest.He was no tyro in the stern sorrows of the Northland,but never had he faced so stiff a problem as this.In the abstract,it was a plain,mathematical propositionthree possible lives as against one doomed one.But now he hesitated.For five years,shoulder to shoulder,on the rivers and trails,in the camps and mines,facing death by field and flood and famine,had they knitted the bonds of their comradeship.So close was the tie that he had often been conscious of a vague jealousy of Ruth,from the first time she had come between.And now it must be severed by his own hand.’