"I know you-all are only pokin' fun asking such a question," he
said, with a smile. "Of course I ain't going out."
"Take the oath again, Daylight," the same voice cried.
"I sure will. I first come over Chilcoot in '83. I went out
over the Pass in a fall blizzard, with a rag of a shirt and a cup
of raw flour. I got my grub-stake in Juneau that winter, and in
the spring I went over the Pass once more. And once more the
famine drew me out. Next spring I went in again, and I swore
then that I'd never come out till I made my stake. Well, I ain't
made it, and here I am. And I ain't going out now. I get the
mail and I come right back. I won't stop the night at Dyea.
I'll hit up Chilcoot soon as I change the dogs and get the mail
and grub. And so I swear once more, by the mill-tails of hell
and the head of John the Baptist, I'll never hit for the Outside
till I make my pile. And I tell you-all, here and now, it's got
to be an almighty big pile."
"How much might you call a pile?" Bettles demanded from beneath,
his arms clutched lovingly around Daylight's legs.
"Yes, how much? What do you call a pile?" others cried.
Daylight steadied himself for a moment and debated.
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