CHAPTER XVI
CONNIE PLAYS A HUNCH
Connie Morgan halted his great malamutes in the middle of the ice-locked Yukon and gazed wistfully toward the familiar outlines of Dawson. For a year the little sub-arctic city had been home to him. And as his eyes rested upon the buildings of B Division standing spick and span and clean in their coats of whitewash and paint, his lips pressed tight. Behind those walls from which, only a few minutes before, he had stepped for the last time, were the men who had been his friends—big men, those—great hearted and clean minded—the men who kept the Yukon good. He thought of the grey-haired Superintendent with the twinkling eyes and military moustache; of big Sergeant Dan McKeever, and Corporal Rickey; and Ick Far, the silent reader of signs. Then there were the constables: Beatty, and Dowling, and Shorty Peters—
268
