Fifteen minutes of this diversion sufficed. "Play you a rubber of crib
before bed," he challenged across to the other bunk.
"I'll go you." Corliss got up, stretched, and moved the kerosene lamp
from the shelf to the table, "Think it will hold out?" he asked,
surveying the oil-level through the cheap glass.
Bishop threw down the crib-board and cards, and measured the contents
of the lamp with his eye. "Forgot to fill it, didn't I? Too late now.
Do it to-morrow. It'll last the rubber out, sure."
Corliss took up the cards, but paused in the shuffling. "We've a big
trip before us, Del, about a month from now, the middle of March as
near as I can plan it,--up the Stuart River to McQuestion; up
McQuestion and back again down the Mayo; then across country to Mazy
May, winding up at Henderson Creek--"
"On the Indian River?"
"No," Corliss replied, as he dealt the hands; "just below where the
Stuart taps the Yukon. And then back to Dawson before the ice breaks."
The pocket-miner's eyes sparkled. "Keep us hustlin'; but, say, it's a
trip, isn't it! Hunch?"
"I've received word from the Parker outfit on the Mayo, and McPherson
isn't asleep on Henderson--you don't know him. They're keeping quiet,
and of course one can't tell, but . . ."
Bishop nodded his head sagely, while Corliss turned the trump he had
cut. A sure vision of a "twenty-four" hand was dazzling him, when
there was a sound of voices without and the door shook to a heavy knock.
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