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 b****y-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 ma
