To Build a Fire and Other Stories
To the Man on Trail
“Dump it in."
"But I say, Kid, is n't that going it a little too strong? Whiskey and alcohol's bad enough: but when it comes to brandy and pepper-sauce and"–
"Dump it in. Who 's making this punch, anyway?" And Malemute Kid smiled benignantly through the clouds of steam. "By the time you've been in this country as long as I have, my son, and lived on rabbit-tracks and salmon-belly, you'll learn that Christmas comes only once per annum. And a Christmas without punch is sinking a hole to bedrock with nary a pay-streak."
"Stack up on that fer a high cyard," approved Big Jim Belden, who had come down from his claim on Mazy May to spend Christmas, and who, as every one knew, had been living the two months past on straight moose-meat. "Hain't fergot the hooch we-uns made on the Tanana, hev yeh?"
"Well, I guess yes. Boys, it would have done your hearts good to see that whole tribe fighting drunk–and all because of a glorious ferment of sugar and sour dough. That was before your time," Malemute Kid said as ...
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