They had slept so little, their labors had been so heavy, that they were dumb and dull with fatigue when they finally reached the first bluffs and worked their boat through a low gorge where all the waters of the Salmon thrashed and icebergs galloped past like a pallid host in flight. Here they paused and stared with wondering eyes at what lay before; a chill, damp breath swept over them, and a mighty awe laid hold of their hearts. "Come on!" said O'Neil. "Other men have gone through; we'll do the same." On the evening of the sixth day a splintered, battered poling-boat with its seams open swung in to the bank where O'Neil's men were encamped, and its three occupants staggered out. They were gaunt and stiff and heavy-eyed. Even Tom Slater's full cheeks hung loose and flabby. But the leader was alert and buoyant; his face was calm, his eyes were smiling humorously. "You'll take the men on to the coal-fields and finish the work," he told his boss packer later that night. "Appleton and I will start back to Cortez in the morning. When you have finished go to Juneau and see to the recording." "Ain't that my luck?" murmured the dyspeptic. "Me for Kyak where there ain't a store, and my gum all wet." "Chew it, paper and all," advised Appleton, cheerfully. "Oh, the good has all gone out of it now," Slater explained. "Meet me in Seattle on the fifteenth of next month," his employer directed. "I'll be there if old 'Indy' spares me. But dyspepsia, with nothing to eat except beans and pork bosom, will probably lay me in my grave long before the fifteenth. However, I'll do my best. Now, do you want to know what I think of this proposition of yours?" He eyed his superior somberly. "Sure; I want all the encouragement I can get, and your views are always inspiriting." "Well, I think it's nothing more nor less than hydrophobia. These mosquitoes have given you the rabies and you need medical attention. You need it bad." "Still, you'll help me, won't you?" "Oh yes," said Tom, "I'll help you. But it's a pity to see a man go mad." VII THE DREAM The clerk of the leading hotel in Seattle whirled his register about as a man deposited a weather-beaten war-bag on the marble floor and leaned over the counter to inquire: "Is Murray O'Neil here?" This question had been asked repeatedly within the last two hours, but heretofore by people totally different in appearance from the one who spoke now. The man behind the desk measured the stranger with a suspicious eye before answering. He saw a ragged, loose-hung, fat person of melancholy countenance, who was booted to the knee and chewing gum. "Mr. O'Neil keeps a room here by the year," he replied, guardedly. "Show me up!" said the new-comer as if advancing a challenge. A smart reply was on the lips of the clerk, but something in the other's manner discouraged flippancy. "You are a friend of Mr. O'Neil's?" he asked, politely.