“I wouldn’t mind trying it,” Pierce confessed, “but I have no outfit.  I’m packing for wages.  I’ll be along when I get my grub-stake together.”

“Good!  I go purty queeck now.  W’en you come, I tak’ you t’rough de canyon free.  In one day I teach you be good pilot.  You ask for ’Poleon Doret.  Remember?”

“I say!” Phillips halted the cheerful giant as he was about to rise.  “Do you know, you’re the first man who has offered to do me a favor; you’re the only one who hasn’t tried to hold me back and climb over me.  You’re the first man I’ve seen with—­with a smile on his face.”

The speaker nodded.  “I know!  It’s peety, too.  Dese poor feller is scare’, lak’ you.  Dey don’ onderstan’.  But bimeby, dey get wise; dey learn to he’p de oder feller, dey learn dat a smile will carry a pack or row a boat.  You remember dat.  A smile and a song, she’ll shorten de miles and mak’ fren’s wid everybody.  Don’ forget w’at I tell you.”

“Thank you, I won’t,” said Pierce, with a flicker of amusement at the man’s brief sermon.  This Doret was evidently a sort of backwoods preacher.

“Adieu!” With another flashing smile and a wave of his hand the fellow joined the procession and went on over the crest.

It had been pleasant to exchange even these few friendly words, for of late the habit of silence had been forced upon Pierce Phillips.  For weeks now he had toiled among reticent men who regarded him with hostility, who made way for him with reluctance.  Haste, labor, strain had numbed and brutalized them; fatigue had rendered them irritable, and the strangeness of their environment had made them both fearful and suspicious.  There was no good-fellowship, no consideration on the Chilkoot.  This was a race against time, and the stakes went to him who was most ruthless.  Phillips had not exaggerated.  Until this morning, he had received no faintest word of encouragement, no slightest offer of help.  Not once had a hand been outstretched to him, and every inch he had gained had been won at the cost of his own efforts and by reason of his own determination.

He was yet warm with a wordless gratitude at the Frenchman’s cheer when a figure came lurching toward him and fell into the space Doret had vacated.  This man was quite the opposite of the one who had just left; he was old and he was far from robust.  He fell face downward and lay motionless.  Impulsively Phillips rose and removed the new-comer’s pack.

“That last lift takes it out of you, doesn’t it?” he inquired, sympathetically.

After a moment the stranger lifted a thin, colorless face overgrown with a bushy gray beard and began to curse in a gasping voice.

The youth warned him.  “You’re only tiring yourself, my friend.  It’s all down-hill from here.”

The sufferer regarded Phillips from a pair of hard, smoky-blue eyes in which there lurked both curiosity and surprise.

“I say!” he panted.  “You’re the first white man I’ve met in two weeks.”