hospitality, who never refused a meal or a lodging for the night to a passing traveller. During the summer Bill had rocked out gold from the river bars, and in winter had cut wood for steamers plying between Whitehorse and Dawson. That he made but a bare living Hugo was well aware, and he had often wondered why he was content to remain in such a lonely place.
Hugo turned these things over in his mind as he walked slowly away from the river. Reaching the cabin, he drew his toboggan into the building. The fire had been doing good work and the room was warm. The child, unable to cry more, was lying uncovered upon the blankets. It watched Hugo’s every movement with wide, unblinking eyes.
“Don’t be afraid, little chap,” the man said. “I won’t hurt you. I’m going to give you something to eat. Maybe that will make you friendly. I wonder how old it is, anyway,” he mused. “It can’t eat meat, that’s certain. Liquids and soft food are the only thing for babies. Now, what in time can I give it! Ah, I know. Just the thing.”
He turned and walked over to the toboggan. Throwing aside the blankets, he lifted a tin can, blackened from numerous campfires. This he placed upon the stove, removed the cover and looked in.
“Ptarmigan soup should be good for the little fellow,” he remarked. “It’s mighty lucky I didn’t eat it all for breakfast. My! it’s hot here.”
He raised his hand as if to remove his fur cap, but suddenly desisted. Then he stepped outside and looked carefully around. Seeing no one, he went back into the cabin, took off his cap, and hung it upon one of the legs of the overturned table. The head thus exposed was covered with a wealth of hair, thickly streaked
