The creature's eyes were alight with a somber frenzy, which
blazed and waned with every mouthful. There was very little skin
to the face. The face, for that matter, sunken and emaciated,
bore little likeness to human countenance.
Frost after frost had bitten deeply, each depositing its stratum
of scab upon the half-healed scar that went before. This dry,
hard surface was of a bloody-black color, serrated by grievous
cracks wherein the raw red flesh peeped forth. His skin garments
were dirty and in tatters, and the fur of one side was singed and
burned away, showing where he had lain upon his fire.
Malemute Kid pointed to where the sun-tanned hide had been cut
away, strip by strip--the grim signature of famine.
'Who--are--you?' slowly and distinctly enunciated the Kid.
The man paid no heed.
'Where do you come from?' 'Yan-kee ship come down de ri-ib-er,'
was the quavering response.
'Don't doubt the beggar came down the river,' the Kid said,
shaking him in an endeavor to start a more lucid flow of talk.
But the man shrieked at the contact, clapping a hand to his side
in evident pain. He rose slowly to his feet, half leaning on the
table.
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