“That theer’s Dawson,” he announced. Tembarom saw that the region of the Klondike had been much studied. It was even rather faded with the frequent passage of searching fingers, as though it had been pored over with special curiosity. “There’s gowd-moines theer,” revealed Tummas. “An’ theer’s welly nowt else but snow an’ ice. A young chap as set out fro’ here to get theer froze to death on the way.” “How did you get to hear about it?” “Ann she browt me a paper onct.” He dug under his pillow, and brought out a piece of newspaper, worn and frayed and cut with age and usage. “This heer’s what’s left of it.” Tembarom saw that it was a fragment from an old American sheet and that a column was headed “The Rush for the Klondike.” “Why didn’t tha go theer?” demanded Tummas. He looked up from his fragment and asked his question with a sudden reflectiveness, as though a new and interesting aspect of things had presented itself to him. “I had too much to do in New York,” said Tembarom. Tummas silently regarded him a moment or so. “It’s a pity tha didn’t,” he said. “Happen tha’d never ha’ coom back.” Tembarom laughed the outright laugh. “Thank you,” he answered. Tummas was still thinking the matter over and was not disturbed. “I was na thinkin’ o’ thee,” he said in an impersonal tone. “I was thinkin’ o’ t’other chap. If tha’d gone i’stead o’ him, he’d ha’ been here i’stead o’ thee. Eh, but it’s funny.” And he drew a deep breath like a sigh having its birth in profundity of baffled thought. Both he and his evident point of view were “funny” in the Lancashire sense, which does not imply humor, but strangeness and the unexplainable. Singular as the phrasing was, Tembarom knew what he meant, and that he was thinking of the oddity of chance. Tummas had obviously heard of “poor Jem” and had felt an interest in him. “You’re talking about Jem Temple Barholm I guess,” he said. Perhaps the interest he himself had felt in the tragic story gave his voice a tone somewhat responsive to Tummas’s own mood, for Tummas, after one more boring glance, let himself go. His interest in this special subject was, it revealed itself, a sort of obsession. The history of Jem Temple Barholm had been the one drama of his short life. “Aye, I was thinkin’ o’ him,” he said. “I should na ha’ cared for the Klondike so much but for him.” “But he went away from England when you were a baby.”