Cal Galbraith shivered slightly as it died away in half-caught
sobs. The Kid read his thoughts openly, and wandered back with
him through all the weary days of famine and disease; and with
him was also the patient Madeline, sharing his pains and perils,
never doubting, never complaining. His mind's retina vibrated to
a score of pictures, stern, clear-cut, and the hand of the past
drew back with heavy fingers on his heart. It was the
psychological moment. Malemute Kid was half-tempted to play his
reserve card and win the game; but the lesson was too mild as
yet, and he let it pass. The next instant they had gripped hands,
and the King's beaded moccasins were drawing protests from the
outraged snow as he crunched down the hill.
Madeline in collapse was another woman to the mischievous
creature of an hour before, whose laughter had been so infectious
and whose heightened color and flashing eyes had made her
teachers for the while forget. Weak and nerveless, she sat in the
chair just as she had been dropped there by Prince and Harrington.
Malemute Kid frowned. This would never do. When the time of
meeting her husband came to hand, she must carry things off with
high-handed imperiousness.
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