Pausing in the chip-littered space before their door, they gazed down the trail to a mound of gravel which stood out raw and red against the universal whiteness. This mound was in the form of a truncated cone and on its level top was a windlass and a pole bucket track. From beneath the windlass issued a cloud of smoke which mounted in billows, as if breathed forth from a concealed chimney--smoke from the smothered drift fires laid against the frozen face of pay dirt forty feet below the surface. Evidently this fire was burning to suit the partners; after watching it a moment, Tom took a buck-saw and fell stiffly to work upon a dry spruce log which lay on the saw-buck; Jerry spat on his mittens and began to split the blocks as they fell. Darkness was close at hand, but both men were so fagged that they found it impossible to hurry. Neither did they speak. Patiently, silently they sawed and chopped, then carried the wood into the chilly cabin; while one lit the lamp and went for a sack of ice, the other kindled a fire. These tasks accomplished, by mutual consent, but still without exchanging a word, they approached the table. From the window-sill Tom took a coin and balanced it upon his thumb and forefinger; then, in answer to his bleak, inquiring glance, Jerry nodded and he snapped the piece into the air. While it was still spinning Jerry barked, sharply: "Tails!" Both gray heads bent and near-sightedly examined the coin. "Tails she is," Tom announced. He replaced the silver piece, crossed the room to his bunk, seated himself upon it, and remained there while Jerry, with a sudden access of cheerfulness, hustled to the stove, warmed himself, and then began culinary preparations. These preparations were simple, but precise; also they were deliberate. Jerry cut one slice of ham, he measured out just enough coffee for one person, he opened one can of corn, and he mixed a half-pan of biscuits. Tom watched him from beneath a frown, meanwhile tugging moodily at the icicles which still clung to his lips. His corner of the cabin was cold, hence it was a painful process. When he had disposed of the last lump and when he could no longer restrain his irritation, he broke out: "Of course you had to make BREAD, didn't you? Just because you know I'm starving." "It come tails, didn't it?" Jerry inquired, with aggravating pleasantness. "It ain't my fault you're starving, and you got all night to cook what YOU want--after I'm done. _I_ don't care if you bake a layer cake and freeze ice-cream. You can put your front feet in the trough and champ your swill; you can root and waller in it, for all of ME. _I_ won't hurry you, not in the least." "It's come tails every time lately," grumbled the former speaker. Jerry giggled. "I always was right lucky, except in pickin' pardners," he declared. In a cracked and tuneless voice he began humming a roundelay, evidently intended to express gaiety and contentment.