Porportuk searched in his pouch and brought forth a memorandum. He sipped at his glass and began. “There is the note of August, 1889, for three hundred dollars. The interest has never been paid. And the note of the next year for five hundred dollars. This note was included in the note of two months later for a thousand dollars. Then there is the note—” “Never mind the many notes!” Klakee-Nah cried out impatiently. “They make my head go around and all the things inside my head. The whole! The round whole! How much is it?” Porportuk referred to his memorandum. “Fifteen thousand nine hundred and sixty-seven dollars and seventy-five cents,” he read with careful precision. “Make it sixteen thousand, make it sixteen thousand,” Klakee-Nah said grandly. “Odd numbers were ever a worry. And now—and it is for this that I have sent for you—make me out a new note for sixteen thousand, which I shall sign. I have no thought of the interest. Make it as large as you will, and make it payable in the next world, when I shall meet you by the fire of the Great Father of all Indians. Then the note will be paid. This I promise you. It is the word of Klakee-Nah.” Porportuk looked perplexed, and loudly the laughter arose and shook the room. Klakee-Nah raised his hands. “Nay,” he cried. “It is not a joke. I but speak in fairness. It was for this I sent for you, Porportuk. Make out the note.” “I have no dealings with the next world,” Porportuk made answer slowly. “Have you no thought to meet me before the Great Father!” Klakee-Nah demanded. Then he added, “I shall surely be there.” “I have no dealings with the next world,” Porportuk repeated sourly. The dying man regarded him with frank amazement. “I know naught of the next world,” Porportuk explained. “I do business in this world.” Klakee-Nah’s face cleared. “This comes of sleeping cold of nights,” he laughed. He pondered for a space, then said, “It is in this world that you must be paid. There remains to me this house. Take it, and burn the debt in the candle there.” “It is an old house and not worth the money,” Porportuk made answer. “There are my mines on the Twisted Salmon.” “They have never paid to work,” was the reply. “There is my share in the steamer _Koyokuk_. I am half owner.” “She is at the bottom of the Yukon.” Klakee-Nah started. “True, I forgot. It was last spring when the ice went out.” He mused for a time while the glasses remained untasted, and all the company waited upon his utterance. “Then it would seem I owe you a sum of money which I cannot pay . . . in this world?” Porportuk nodded and glanced down the table. “Then it would seem that you, Porportuk, are a poor business man,” Klakee-Nah said slyly. And boldly Porportuk made answer, “No; there is security yet untouched.” “What!” cried Klakee-Nah. “Have I still property? Name it, and it is yours, and the debt is no more.” “There it is.” Porportuk pointed at El-Soo.