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Sinclair, Bertrand W., 1881-1972

"North of Fifty-Three"

Don't
you have to locate those claims first?"
"Wise old head; you have the idea, all right." He smiled. "But this
is not a stock-jobbing proposition. I wouldn't be in on it if it were,
believe me. It's to be a corporation, where not to exceed six men will
own all the stock that's issued. And so far as the claims are
concerned, I've got Whitey Lewis located in Fort George, and I've been
burning the wires and spending a bundle of real money getting him
grub-staked. He has got four men besides himself all ready to hit the
trail as soon as I give the word."
"You won't have to go?" she put in quickly.
"No," he murmured. "It isn't necessary, at this particular stage of
the game. But I wouldn't mind popping a whip over a good string of
dogs, just the same."
"B-r-r-r!" she shivered involuntarily. "Four hundred miles across that
deep snow, through that steady, flesh-searing cold. I don't envy them
the journey."
Bill relapsed into unsmiling silence, sprawling listless in his chair,
staring absently at the rug, as if he had lost all interest in the
matter.
"If you stay here and manage this end of it," she pursued lightly, "I
suppose you'll have an office downtown.


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