"Let me look at it," the doctor broke in impatiently. "Lay it on the table. There, like that." Tenderly, as if it were a great boil, the man obeyed. "Humph," the doctor grumbled. "A weeping sinew. And travelled a hundred miles to have it fixed. I'll fix it in a jiffy. You watch me, and next time you can do it yourself." Without warning, squarely and at right angles, and savagely, the doctor brought the edge of his hand down on the swollen crooked finger. The man yelled with consternation and agony. It was more like the cry of a wild beast, and his face was a wild beast's as he was about to spring on the man who had perpetrated the joke. "That's all right," the doctor placated sharply and authoritatively. "How do you feel? Better, eh? Of course. Next time you can do it yourself--Go on and deal, Strothers. I think we've got you." Slow and ox-like, on the face of the Swede dawned relief and comprehension. The pang over, the finger felt better. The pain was gone. He examined the finger curiously, with wondering eyes, slowly crooking it back and forth. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a gold-sack. "How much?" The doctor shook his head impatiently. "Nothing. I'm not practising--Your play, Bob." The Swede moved heavily on his feet, re-examined the finger, then turned an admiring gaze on the doctor. "You are good man. What your name?" "Linday, Doctor Linday," Strothers answered, as if solicitous to save his opponent from further irritation. "The day's half done," Linday said to the Swede, at the end of the hand, while he shuffled. "Better rest over to-night. It's too cold for travelling. There's a spare bunk." He was a slender brunette of a man, lean-cheeked, thin-lipped, and strong. The smooth-shaven face was a healthy sallow. All his movements were quick and precise. He did not fumble his cards. The eyes were black, direct, and piercing, with the trick of seeming to look beneath the surfaces of things. His hands, slender, fine and nervous, appeared made for delicate work, and to the most casual eye they conveyed an impression of strength. "Our game," he announced, drawing in the last trick. "Now for the rub and who digs the fishing hole." A knock at the door brought a quick exclamation from him. "Seems we just can't finish this rubber," he complained, as the door opened. "What's the matter with _you_?"--this last to the stranger who entered. The newcomer vainly strove to move his icebound jaws and jowls. That he had been on trail for long hours and days was patent. The skin across the cheekbones was black with repeated frost-bite. From nose to chin was a mass of solid ice perforated by the hole through which he breathed. Through this he had also spat tobacco juice, which had frozen, as it trickled, into an amber-coloured icicle, pointed like a Van Dyke beard.