“Cross my heart and hope to die. Now, get a hustle on, or I'll catch my death of cold.” Smoke kept himself warm by kicking a channel through the rim with the heel of his shoe. By the time he had drained off the last of the water, a faint call from Carson announced that he had reached the top. After that Smoke occupied himself with drying his clothes. The late afternoon sun beat warmly in upon him, and he wrung out his garments and spread them about him. His match-case was water-proof, and he manipulated and dried sufficient tobacco and rice-paper to make cigarettes. Two hours later, perched naked on the two packs and smoking, he heard a voice above that he could not fail to identify. “Oh, Smoke! Smoke!” “Hello, Joy Gastell!” he called back. “Where'd you drop from?” “Are you hurt?” “Not even any skin off!” “Father's paying the rope down now. Do you see it?” “Yes, and I've got it,” he answered. “Now, wait a couple of minutes, please.” “What's the matter?” came her anxious query, after several minutes. “Oh, I know, you're hurt.” “No, I'm not. I'm dressing.” “Dressing?” “Yes. I've been in swimming. Now! Ready? Hoist away!” He sent up the two packs on the first trip, was consequently rebuked by Joy Gastell, and on the second trip came up himself. Joy Gastell looked at him with glowing eyes, while her father and Carson were busy coiling the rope. “How could you cut loose in that splendid way?” she cried. “It was--it was glorious, that's all.” Smoke waved the compliment away with a deprecatory hand. “I know all about it,” she persisted. “Carson told me. You sacrificed yourself to save him.” “Nothing of the sort,” Smoke lied. “I could see that swimming-pool right under me all the time.” VIII. THE HANGING OF CULTUS GEORGE The way led steeply up through deep, powdery snow that was unmarred by sled-track or moccasin impression. Smoke, in the lead, pressed the fragile crystals down under his fat, short snow-shoes. The task required lungs and muscle, and he flung himself into it with all his strength. Behind, on the surface he packed, strained the string of six dogs, the steam-jets of their breathing attesting their labor and the lowness of the temperature. Between the wheel-dog and the sled toiled Shorty, his weight divided between the guiding gee-pole and the haul, for he was pulling with the dogs. Every half-hour he and Smoke exchanged places, for the snow-shoe work was even more arduous than that of the gee-pole.