But Edwin Bentham--he was an indolent fellow, and had he not been
possessed of a wife, would have gladly joined issued in the
dog-meat speculation. As it was, she played upon his vanity, told
him how great and strong he was, how a man such as he certainly
was could overcome all obstacles and of a surety obtain the
Golden Fleece. So he squared his jaw, sold his share in the bones
and hides for a sled and one dog, and turned his snowshoes to the
north. Needless to state, Grace Bentham's snowshoes never allowed
his tracks to grow cold. Nay, ere their tribulations had seen
three days, it was the man who followed in the rear, and the
woman who broke trail in advance. Of course, if anybody hove in
sight, the position was instantly reversed. Thus did his manhood
remain virgin to the travelers who passed like ghosts on the
silent trail. There are such men in this world.
How such a man and such a woman came to take each other for
better and for worse is unimportant to this narrative. These
things are familiar to us all, and those people who do them, or
even question them too closely, are apt to lose a beautiful faith
which is known as Eternal Fitness.
Edwin Bentham was a boy, thrust by mischance into a man's
body,--a boy who could complacently pluck a butterfly, wing from
wing, or cower in abject terror before a lean, nervy fellow, not
half his size.
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