“To thaw out the gravel wi’ steam,” and undisturbed, he waited for the laughter to subside. “Ye’ll see it done,” he continued, with conviction. “Ye’d of all laughed an’ babbled yer brainless jokes last winter if anyone told ye there’d be winter minin’ on the Yukon. An’ now ye’re used to the winter minin’ by thawin’ the gravel wi’ cordwood fires, an’ ye think it’ll always be thawed that way. But it won’t. It’s a waste of wood, an’ a waste of time, an’ a waste of hard labor. Wi’ a b’iler, now, an’ a steam hose runnin’ to the bottom of the shaft, ye could thaw the muck an’ gravel faster, an’ use half, an’ less than half the wood.” The door opened and a man entered in a cloud of steam that swirled about his knees. Shaking his hands from a pair of heavy fur mittens which dangled upon their thongs, he fumbled at the tie strings of his cap. He was a lean man, with the rugged leanness of perfect health, and he advanced into the room with the springy step that bespoke perfect coordination of tireless muscles. “It’s MacShane!” cried Moosehide Charlie, and instantly the name passed from lip to lip throughout the length and breadth of the room. Men called greeting from the poker tables, the dancers paused amid the whirl of a waltz to wave a hand at him, and the onlookers at the wheel and the faro layouts crowded forward to the bar. The newcomer was deluged with invitations to drink. For in the camp of the sourdoughs, the name of MacShane was a name to conjure with. “Merry Christmas, you trail-mushers an’ sourdoughs!” he called, “Merry Christmas, you frost-hounds, an’ dancin’ girls!” McCarty, owner of the Golden North Saloon rapped loudly upon the bar: “The family’s all here!” he cried, “An’ the house buys! Mush up, an’ name yer liquor. We’re goin’ to drink to a Merry Christmas--an’ many of ’em!” The music ceased abruptly in the middle of a dance. The girls crowded forward on the arms of their partners, shouting greetings to MacShane, who called most of them by name as he returned the pleasantries. As the glasses were filled, MacShane was busy greeting old acquaintances, recalling with unfailing accuracy the last place he had seen them. It was: “How’s everything at Nulato?” “When did you quit the Tanana?” “How’s everyone at Eagle?” “What’s doin’ on the White River?” and so on, until McCarty interrupted, holding his glass aloft. “A Merry Christmas!” he cried, and “Merry Christmas!” arose from the throats of the crowd in a mighty surge of sound.