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Updated: April 30, 2025
But cake pressed upon cake and shelved out of the water, out and up, sliding and grinding and climbing, and still more cakes from behind, till hillocks and mountains of ice upreared and crashed among the trees. "A likely place for a jam," Jacob Welse said. "Get the glasses, Frona." He gazed through them long and steadily. "It's growing, spreading out.
No!" he exclaimed, with swift resolution, "it shall not be! I will cross the ice!" He would have started precipitately down the bank had not Jacob Welse caught his arm. "Not such a rush, baron. Keep your head." "But " "But nothing. Does the man want food, or medicine, or what? Wait a moment. We will try it together." "Count me in," St. Vincent volunteered promptly, and Frona's eyes sparkled.
"I dare say our farewell might have been more dignified," she called back to him, her laughter rippling across the water. "Jove!" he muttered, doffing his cap gallantly. "There is a woman!" And a sudden hunger seized him, and a yearning to see himself mirrored always in the gray eyes of Frona Welse.
Three thousand went out over the ice hittin' the high places, an' half ez many again went down to the caches, and the market's loosened some considerable. Jest what Welse figgered on, everybody speculated on a rise and held all the grub they could lay hand to. That helped scare the shorts, and away they stampeded fer Salt Water, the whole caboodle, a-takin' all the dogs with 'em.
Why, gosh-dang-it! this country kin go to blazes! I'll sell out! I'll quit it cold! I'll I'll go back to the States!" "Oh, no, you won't," Jacob Welse answered. "I've heard you talk before. You put in a year up Stuart River on straight meat, if I haven't forgotten.
Vincent, who was confined in an adjoining cabin, was permitted to see them. "It looks bad," Jacob Welse said, on parting for the night. "But rest assured, St. Vincent, bad or not, you'll not be stretched up so long as I've a hand to play in the rumpus. I am certain you did not kill Borg, and there's my fist on it." "A long day," Corliss remarked, as he walked back with Frona to her cabin.
He opened his eyes and whispered hoarsely, "Jacob Welse . . . despatches . . . from the Outside." He plucked feebly at his open shirt, and across his emaciated chest they saw the leather strap, to which, doubtless, the despatch-pouch was slung. At either end of the canoe there was room to spare, but amidships Corliss was forced to paddle with the man between his knees.
The clerks were selling everything except grub, and it was grub that was in demand. "Holding it for a rise. Famine prices," a red-whiskered miner sneered. Jacob Welse heard it, but took no notice. He expected to hear it many times and more unpleasantly ere the scare was over. On the sidewalk he stopped to glance over the public bulletins posted against the side of the building.
It is long since I have met a woman" she paused while her tongue wandered for the word "who could quote 'Paracelsus. You are, I know you, you see, you are Jacob Welse's daughter, Frona Welse, I believe." Frona nodded her identity, hesitated, and looked at the woman with secret intentness. She was conscious of a great and pardonable curiosity, of a frank out-reaching for fuller knowledge.
"I don't know your name, nor do I wish to know it." "Well, I shall not be so harsh, for I do know your name, MISTER VANCE CORLISS! I saw it on the shipping tags, of course," she explained. "And I want you to come and see me when you get to Dawson. My name is Frona Welse. Good-by." "Your father is not Jacob Welse?" he called after her as she ran lightly down towards the trail.
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