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Then, as their eyes met, those two worthies seemed to experience a difficulty of articulation. Dumfounded himself, George looked from one to the other, "What the devil's wrong with you fools?" he queried irritably. Thereupon, McCullough, still holding the eyes of the Cockney, gasped out one magical word "Yorkey!" The spell was broken.
"Eh!" queried Yorke brutally rocking "does hurt?" "If the home we never write to, and the oaths we never keep, And all we " "No! no! no! Yorkey!" George's voice rose to a cry, "not that! . . . quit it, old man! . . . that's one of the most terrible things Kipling ever wrote terrible because it's so absolutely, utterly hopeless. . . ." "Well, then!" said Yorke slowly
And the latter replied, "That's about the lay of it, Yorkey." The sergeant listened, but absently. To them it did not seem exactly to be an occasion for levity; but they could have sworn that, behind an exaggerated grimness of mien, he was striving to suppress some inward mirth, as his deep-set Irish eyes roved from face to face.
"Fox!" he gasped presently "this morning. . . . I never told you. My God! You might have got hung up like this, too." "No! no! Yorkey!" Redmond almost shouted the disclaimer, "Slavin wised me up to that trick of his yesterday. I forgot. It was my own fault I got piled like that. Forget it, old man! I say forget it!" He shook the other's arm with a sort of savage gentleness.
One of 'em's snagged on something below, I guess. Here! hold the rod a minute, Yorkey!" The latter complied. George unbuttoned and threw off his stable-jacket and began taking off his boots. Yorke contemplated his comrade's actions in speechless amazement. "Why, what the devil? " he began
Now we've fallen on each other's ruddy necks and kissed and wept and had a heart-to-heart talk we'll " "Aw, quit making game, Yorkey! Is it a go? You know what I said?" Strangely compelling, Yorke found that bruised, eager, wistful young face, with its earnest, honest eyes. "All right!" he agreed, with languid bonhomie.
In fwhat fashion he puts th' wind up 'him, I do not know; they will not talk, out av pure kindness av heart an' rispict for meself, I guess. But a few days here, an' bingo! they apply for thransfer. Now ye know ivrythin', bhoy fwhat I am up against, an' fwhy I will not 'can' Yorkey. Ye've a face that begets thrust do not bethray ut, but thry an' hilp me.
The cabbies looked at one another and shook their heads; it chanced that none of them had been on that particular rank at that time. But the waterman said: "'Old on I bet 'e's the bloke wot old Bill Stammers took. Yorkey was fust on the rank, but the bloke wouldn't 'ave a 'ansom wanted a four-wheeler, so old Bill took 'im.
McCullough, busily burnishing a bit, shrugged deprecatingly and laughed. Hardy, putting the last touches to his revolver-holster, made answer, George thought, with peculiar reticence. "Wot, Yorkey? . . . oh, 'e's a 'oly terror 'e is. . . . You arst Crampton," he mumbled "arst Taylor they wos at Davidsburg wiv 'im. Slavin's orl right but Yorkey!". . . He looked unutterable things.
"I'll tell ye th' tale. . . . 'Twas up at th' Chilkoot Pass in the gold rush av '98. . . . Together we was Yorkey an' meself stationed there undher ould Bobby Belcher. Wan night Mother av God! will I iver forghet ut? Bitther cowld is th' Yukon, lad; th' like av ut yu' here in Alberta du not know. Afther tu crazy lost cheechacos we had been that day.
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