I'll be with you." Three miles up-stream, where the Yukon curved grandly in from the west, a bit of water appeared.

It seemed too marvellous for belief, after the granite winter; but McPherson, untouched of imagination, began a crafty retreat.
"Bide a wee, bide a wee," he protested, when collared by the pocket-miner.

"A've forgot my pipe." "Then you'll bide with us, Tommy," Del sneered.

"And I'd let you have a draw of mine if your own wasn't sticking out of your pocket." "'Twas the baccy I'd in mind." "Then dig into this." He shoved his pouch into McPherson's shaking hands.

"You'd better shed your coat.