Speaker 1: The Man with the Gash by Jack London. Jacob Kent
had suffered from cupidity all the days of his life. This,
in turn, had engendered a chronic distrustfulness, and his mind
and character had become so warped that he was a
very disagreeable man to deal with. He was also a
victim to somnambulic propensities, and very set in his ideas.
He had been a weaver of cloth from the cradle
until the fever of Klondike had entered his blood and
torn him away from his loom. His cabin stood midway
between sixty mile Post and the Stuart River, and men
who made it, accustomed to travel the trail. To Dawson,
likened him to a robber baron perched in his fortress,
an exacting toll from the caravans that used his ill
kept roads. Since a certain amount of history was required
in the construction of this figure, the less cultured wayfair
from Stuart River were prone to describe him after a
still more primordial fashion, in which command of strong adjectives
was to be chiefly noted. This cabin was not his,
by the way, having been built several years previously by
a couple of miners who had got out a raft
of logs at that point for a grub stake. They
had been most hospitable lads, and after they abandoned it,
travelers who knew the route made it an object to
arrive there at nightfall. It was very handy, saving them
all the time and toil of pitching camp, and it
was an unwritten rule that the last man left a
neat pile of firewood for the next comer. Rarely a
night passed, but from half a dozen to a score
of men crowded into its shelter. Jacob Kent noted these things,
exercised squatter sovereignty, and moved in. Thenceforth the weary travelers
were malted a dollar per head for the privilege of
sleeping on the floor, Jacob Kent weighing the dust and
never failing to steal the down weight. Besides, he so
contrived that his transient guests chopped his wood for him
and carried his water. This was rank piracy, but his
victims were an easy going breed, and while they detested him,
they yet permitted him to flourish in his sins. One
afternoon in April, he sat by his door for all
the world, like a predatory spider, marveling at the heat
of the returning sun and keeping an eye on the
trail for prospective flies. The Yukon lay at his feet
a sea of ice, disappearing around two great bends to
the north and south, and stretching an honest two miles
from bank to bank. Over its rough breast ran the
sledge trail, a slender, sunken line eighteen inches wide and
two thousand miles in length, with more curses distributed to
the linear foot than any other road in or out
of all Christendom. Jacob Kent was feeling particularly good that afternoon.
The record had been broken the previous night, and he
had sold his hospitality to no less than twenty eight visitors.
True it had been quite uncomfortable, and four had snored
beneath his bunk all night, But then it had added
appreciable weight to the sack in which he kept his
gold dust. That sack, with its glittering yellow treasure, was
at once the chief delight and the chief bane of
his existence. Heaven and Hell lay within its slender mouth.
In the nature of things, there being no privacy to
his one roomed dwelling, he was tortured by a constant
fear of theft. It would be very easy for these bearded,
desperate looking strangers to make away with it. Often he
dreamed that such was the case, and awoke in the
grip of nightmare. A select number of these robbers haunted
him through his dreams, and he came to know them
quite well, especially the bronzed leader with the gash on
his right cheek. This fellow was the most persistent of
the lot, and because of him he had, in his
waking moments, constructed several score of hiding places in and
about the cabin. After a concealment, he would breathe freely again,
perhaps for several nights, only to collar the man with
the gash in the very act of unearthing the sack. Then,
on awakening in the midst of the usual struggle, he
would at once get up and transfer the bag to
a new and more ingenious crypt. It was not that
he was the direct victim of these phanfasms, but he
believed in omens and thought transference, and he deemed these
dream robbers to be the astrol projection of real personages
who happened at those particular moments, no matter where there
they were in the flesh, to be harboring designs in
the spirit upon his wealth. So he continued to bleed
the unfortunates who crossed his threshold, and at the same
time to add to his trouble with every ounce that
went into the sack. As he sat sunning himself, a
thought came to Jacob Kent that brought him to his
feet with a jerk. The pleasures of life had culminated
in the continual weighing and re weighing of his dust.
But a shadow had been thrown upon this pleasant avocation,
which he had hitherto failed to brush aside. His gold
scales were quite small, in fact, their maximum was a
pound and a half eighteen ounces, while his hoard mounted
up to something like three and a third times that.
He had never been able to weigh it all at
one operation, and hence considered himself to have been shut
out from a new and most edifying coign of contemplation.
Being denied this half the pleasure of possession had been lost. Nay,
he felt that this miserable obstacle actually minimized the fact
as it did the strength of possession. It was the
solution of this problem, flashing across his mind that had
just brought him to his feet. He searched the trail
carefully in either direction. There was nothing in sight, so
he went inside. In a few seconds, he had the
table cleared away and the scales set up. On one side,
he placed the stamped discs to the equivalent of fifteen
ounces and balanced it with dust. On the other, replacing
the weights with dust, he then had thirty ounces precisely balanced.
These in turn he placed together on one side, and
again balanced with more dust. By this time the gold
was exhausted and he was sweating liberally. He trembled with ecstasy,
ravished beyond measure. Nevertheless, he dusted the sack thoroughly to
the last least grain, till the balance was overcome, and
one side of the scales sank to the table. Equilibrium, however,
was restored by the addition of a pennyweight and five
grains to the opposite side. He stood head thrown back transfixed.
The sack was empty, but the potentiality of the scales
had become immeasurable. Upon them, he could weigh any amount
from the tiniest grain to pounds. Upon pounds. Mammon laid
hot fingers on his heart. The sun swung on its
westering way till it flashed through the open doorway full
upon the yellow burdened scales. The precious heaps, like the
golden breasts of a bronze Cleopatra, flung back the light
in a mellow glow. Time and space were not god blimey.
But you have the making of several quid there, haven't you.
Jacob Kent wheeled about at the same time, reaching for
his double barreled shotgun, which stood hennah. But when his
eyes lit on the intruder's face, he staggered back dizzily.
It was the face of the man with the gash.
The man looked at him curiously. Oh that's all right,
he said, waving his hand deprecatingly. You needn't think as
I'll arm you or your blasted dust. You're a rumn,
you are, he added reflectively, as he watched the sweat
pouring from off Kent's face and the quavering of his knees.
Why don't you pipe up and say something, he went on,
as the other struggled for breath. What's gone wrong? You guff?
Anythink the matter where'd you get it? Can't at last
managed to articulate, raising a shaking forefinger to the ghastly
scar which seemed the other's cheek shipmate. Stove me down
with a marlin spike from the main royal And now
as you have your figure red and trim, what I
wanta know is what's it to you? That's what I
want to know. What's it to you? God blimey, do
it hurt you? Ain't? It's smug enough for the likes
of you. That's what I want to know. No, No,
Kent answered, sinking upon a stool with a sickly grin.
I was just wondering, did you ever see the like?
The other went on truculently. No, ain't, did a butte? Yes?
Kent nodded his head approvingly, intent on humoring this strange visitor,
but wholly unprepared for the outburst which was to follow
his effort to be agreeable. You blasted bloom in Burg,
who eaten son of a sea swab? What do you
mean a saying the most unsightly thing God Almighty ever
put on the face of mine as a butte? What
do you mean? You and thereat this fiery sun of
a sea broke off into a string of oriental profanity,
mingling gods and devils, lineages and men, metaphors and monsters
with so savage a virility that Jacob Kent was paralyzed.
He shrank back, his arms lifted as though to ward
off physical violence. So utterly unnerved was he that the
other paused in the mid swing of a gorgeous peroration
and bust into thunderous laughter. The sun's knocked the bottom
out of the trail, said the man with the gash
between departing paroxysms of mirth. And I only ope as
you'll appreciate the opportunity of consortin with a man of
my mug get. Steam up in that fire box, O yurn,
go and unrig the dogs and grub em and don't
be shy O the wood, my lad. There's plenty more
where that come from. And it's you've got the time
to sling an axe and tow up a bucket o
water while you're about it lively, or I'll run yo down,
So help me. Such a thing was unheard of. Jacob
Kent was making the fire, chopping wood, packing water, doing
menial tasks for a guest. When Jim Cardegie left Dawson,
it was with his head filled with the iniquities of
this roadside Shylock, and all along the trail his numerous
victims had added to the sum of his crimes. Now
Jim Cardegie, with the sailor's love for a sailor's joke,
had determined when he pulled into the cabin to bring
its inmate down a peg or so, that he had
succeeded beyond expectation. He could not help but remark though
he was in the dark as to the part the
gash on his cheek had played in it. But while
he could not understand, he saw the terror it created
and resolved to exploit it as remorselessly as would any
modern trader. A choice bit of merchandise strike me blind,
But you're asler, he said admiringly, his head cocked to
one side as his host bustled about. You never ought
to have gone klondiking. It's the keeper of a pub
you was laid out for. And it's often as I
have heard the lads up and down the river speak,
O you. But I adn't no idea. You was so
jolly nice Jacob kan't experience the tremendous yearning to try
his shotgun on him, but the fascination of the gash
was too potent. This was the real man with the gash,
the man who had so often robbed him in the spirit.
This then, was the embodied entity of the being whose
astral form had been projected into his dreams, the man
who had so frequently harbored designs against his hoard. Hence,
there could be no other conclusion. This man with the
gash had now come into the flesh to dispossess him,
and that gash he could no more keep his eyes
from it than stop the beating of his heart. Try
as he would, they wandered back to that one point,
as inevitably as the needle to the pole. Do it
ert you, Jim Cardegie thundered, suddenly looking up from the
spreading of his blankets and encountering the rapt gaze of
the other. It strikes me as ow it'd be the
proper thing for you to draw your jib dous the
glim and turn in seein' as I it were. It's
you just lay to that, you swab or so elp me.
I'll take a pull on your peak purchases. Kent was
so nervous that it took three puffs to blow out
the slush lamp, and he crawled into his blankets without
even removing his moccasins. The sailor was soon snoring lustily
from his hard bed on the floor, but Kent lay
staring up into the blackness, one hand on the shotgun,
resolved not to close his eyes the whole night. He
had not had an opportunity to secrete his five pounds
of gold, and it lay in the ammunition box at
the head of his bunk. But try as he would,
he at last dozed off, with the weight of his
dust heavy on his soul. Had he not inadvertently fallen
asleep with his mind in such condition, the somnambulick demon
would not have been invoked, nor would Jim Cardiggie have
gone mining next day with a dish pen. The fire
fought a losing battle and at last died away, while
the frost penetrated the mossy chinks between the logs and
chilled the inner atmosphere. The dogs outside ceased their howling
and curled up in the snow dreamed of salmon. Stalked
heavens where dog drivers and kindred taskmasters were not within
a sailor lay like a log while his host tossed
restlessly about the victim of strange phantasies. As midnight drew near,
he suddenly threw off the blankets and got up. It
was remarkable that he could do what he then did
without ever striking a light. Perhaps it was because of
the darkness that he kept his eyes shut, and perhaps
it was for fear he would see the terrible gash
on the cheek of his visitor. But be this as
it may, it is a fact that, unseen, he opened
his ammunition box, put a heavy charge into the muzzle
of the shotgun without spilling a particle, rammed it down
with double wads, and then put everything away and got
back into bed. Just as daylight laid its steel gray
fingers on the parchment window, Jacob Kent awoke. Turning on
his elbow, he raised the lid and peered into the
ammunition box. Whatever he saw, or whatever he did not see,
exercised a very peculiar effect upon him. Considering his neurotic temperament,
he glanced at the sleeping man on the floor, let
the lid down gently and rolled over on his back.
It was an unwonted calm that rested on his face,
not a muscle quivered. There was not the least sign
of excitement or perturbation. He lay there a long while thinking,
and when he got up and began to move about,
it was in a cool, collected manner, without noise and
without hurry. It happened that a heavy wooden peg had
been driven into the ridge pole just above Jim Cardegie's head.
Jacob Kent, working softly, ran a piece of half inch
manila over it, bringing both ends to the ground. One
end he tied about his waist, and in the other
he rove a running noose. Then he cocked his shotgun
and laid it within reach by the side of numerous
moose hide thongs. By an effort of will, he bore
the sight of the scar, slipped the noose over the
sleeper's head, and drew it taut by throwing back on
his weight at the same time seizing the gun and
bringing it to bear. Jim Cardigie awoke, choking, bewildered, staring
down the twin wells of steel. Where is it? Kent
asked at the same time, slacking on the rope. You've
blasted ah, Kent merely threw back his weight, shutting off
the other's wind. Brillumin' bur ar. Where is it? Kent
repeated what Cardigie asked, as soon as he had caught
his breath. The gold dust? What gold dust? The perplexed
sailor Tom added, you know well enough, mine ain't seen
nothing of it. What do you take me for a
safe deposit? What have I got to do with it? Anyhow?
Maybe you know and maybe you don't, But anyway, I'm
going to stop your breath till you do know, And
if you lift a hand, I'll blow your head off fast.
Even Cardigie roared. As the rope tightened, Kent eased away
a moment, and the sailor, wriggling his neck as though
from the pressure, managed to loosen the noose a bit
and work it up so the point of contact was
just under the chin. Well. Kent questioned, expecting the disclosure,
but Cardigie grinned, go ahead with your angin you bloom
an old potwarabah. Then, as the sailor had anticipated, the
tragedy became a farce. Cardigie being the heavier of the two, Kent,
throwing his body backward and down, could not lift him
clear of the ground strain and strive to the utter.
Most the sailor's feet still stuck to the floor and
sustained a part of his weight. The remaining portion was
supported by the point of contact just under his chin.
Failing to swing him clear, kent't clung on. Resolved to
slowly throttle him or force him to tell what he
had done with the horde, but the man with the
gash would not throttle. Five, ten, fifteen minutes passed, and
at the end of that time, in despair, kent't let
his prisoner down well, he remarked, wiping away the sweat.
If you won't hang, you'll shoot some men. Wasn't born
to be hanged anyway. And it's a pretty mess as
you'll make all this irt cabin floor Cardegie was fighting
for time. Now, look ere, I'll tell you what we do.
We'll lay our heads longside and reason together. You've lost
some dust. You say, as ow I know, and I
say as ow I don't. Let's get a observation and
shape a course vast heaven. Kent dashed in maliciously imitating
the other's enunciation. I'm going to shape all the courses
of this shebang, and you observe, And if you do
anything more, I'll bore you as sure as Moses, for
the sake of my mother, whom God have mercy upon,
if she loves you, Ah, would you? He frustrated a
hostile move on the part of the other by pressing
the cold muzzle against his forehead. Lay quiet, Now, if
you lift as much as a hair, you'll get it.
It was rather an awkward task, with the trigger of
the gun always within pulling distance of the finger. But
Kent was a weaver and in a few minutes had
the sailor tied hand and foot. Then he dragged him
without and laid him by the side of the cabin,
where he could overlook the river and watch the sun
climb to the meridian. Now I'll give you till noon,
and then what you'll be hitting the brimstone trail. But
if you speak up, I'll keep you till the next
bunch of mounted police come by. Well, God BlimE me.
If this ain't a go ere I be innocent as
a lamb, and ere you be lostole o your top
amper and out o your reckonin run me foul and
going to rake me into hell fire, you bloomin old pirate,
you Jim Cardegie loosed the strings of his profanity and
fairly outdid himself. Jacob Kent brought out a stool that
he might enjoy it in comfort. Having exhausted all the
possible combinations of his vocabulary, the sailor quieted down to
hard thinking, his eyes constantly gaging the progress of the sun,
which tore up the eastern slope of the heavens with
unseemly haste. His dogs, surprised that they had not long
since been put to harness, crowded around him. His helplessness
appealed to the brutes. They felt that something was wrong,
though they knew not what, and they crowded about how
their mournful sympathy chuck mush on ye swashes, he cried,
attempting in a vermicular way to kick at them, and
discovering himself to be tottering on the edge of a declivity.
As soon as the animals had scattered, he devoted himself
to the significance of that declivity, which he felt to
be there, but could not see nor was he long
in arriving at a correct conclusion In the nature of things?
He figured, man is lazy. He does no more than
he has to. When he builds a cabin, he must
put dirt on the roof. From these premises, it was
logical that he should carry that dirt no further than
was absolutely necessary. Therefore he lay upon the edge of
the hole from which the dirt had been taken to
roof Jacob Kent's cabin. This knowledge, properly utilized, might prolong things,
he thought, and he then turned his attention to the
moose hide thongs which bound him. His hands were tied
behind him, and pressing against the snow, they were wet
with the khan. This moistening of the raw hide, he knew,
would tend to make it stretch, and without apparent effort,
he endeavored to stretch it more and more. He watched
the trail hungrily, and when in the direction of sixty
mile a dark speck appeared for a moment against the
white background of an ice jam, he cast an anxious
eye at the sun. It had climbed nearly to the zenith.
Now and again he caught the black speck clearing the
hills of ice and sinking into the intervening hollows. But
he dared not permit himself more than the most cursory glances,
for fear of rousing his enemy's suspicion. Once, when Jacob
Kent rose to his feet and searched the trail with care,
Cardegie was frightened. But the dog sled had struck a
piece of trail running parallel with a jam, and remained
out of sight till the danger was past. I'll see
you ung for this, Cardigie threatened, attempting to draw the
other's attention. And you're rot in l jess you see
if you don't, I say, he cried, after another pause,
d'ye believe in ghosts? Kent's sudden start made him sure
of his ground, and he went on, Now a ghost
as the right to aunt a man? What don't do
what he says? And you can't shuffle me off till
eight bells? What I mean is twelve o'clock, can you
cause if you do, it'll happen as ow I'll aunt
you de ear a minute a second too quick, and
I'll aunt you, so help me I will. Jacob Kent
looked dubious, but declined to talk. Ow's your chronometer? What's
your longitude? How do you know as your time's correct?
Cardegie persisted, vainly, hoping to beat his executioner out of
a few minutes. Is it Barrack's time you have or
is it the company time? Cause if you do it
before the stroke of a bell, I'll not rest. I
give you fair warnin' I'll come back. And if you
haven't the time, how will you know that's what I want?
How will you tell? I'll send you off? All right?
Kent replied, got a sundial here? No good? Thirty two
degrees variation of the needle? Steaks are all set? How
did you get 'em? Compass? No? Line them up with
the north star? Sure? Sure, Cardigie groaned, then stole a
glance at the trail. The sled was just clearing a
rise barely a mile away, and the dogs were in
full lope, running lightly. How close is the shadows to
the line? Kent walked to the primitive timepiece and studied it.
Three inches he announced, after a careful survey, say just
sing out eight bells afore you pull the gun? Will you?
Kent agreed, and they lapsed into silence. The thongs about
Cardegie's wrists were slowly stretching, and he had begun to
work them over his hands. Say how close is the shadows?
One inch? The sailor riggered slightly to assure himself that
he would topple over at the right moment, and slipped
the first turn over his hands. How close half an inch?
Just then Kent heard the jarring churn of the runners
and turned his eyes to the trail. The driver was
lying flat on the sled, and the dogs swinging down
the straight stretch to the cabin. Kent whirled back, bringing
his rifle to shoulder. It ain't eight bells yet, Cardegie expostulated,
I'll aunt you sure, Jacob Kent faltered. He was standing
by the sun dial, perhaps ten paces from his victim.
The man on the sled must have seen that something
unusual was taking place, for he had risen to his knees,
his whip singing viciously among the dogs. The shadows swept
into line. Kent looked along the sights. Make ready, he
commanded solemnly eight. But just a fraction of a second
too soon, Cardigie rolled backward into the hole. Kent held
his fire and ran to the edge. Bang. The gun
exploded full in the sailor's face as he rose to
his feet, but no smoke came from the muzzle. Instead,
a sheet of flame burst from the side of the
barrel near its butt, and Jacob Kent went down. The
dogs dashed up the bank, dragging the sled over his body,
and the driver sprang off as Jim Cardigie freed his
hands and drew himself from the hole. Jim the newcomer
recognized him. What's the matter? What's the matter? Oh, nothing
at all. It just happens as I do little things
like this for my health. What's the matter, you bloom
an igy it? What's the matter? Eh? Cast me loose
or I'll show you what Hurry up, or I'll only
stone the decks with you. Huh, he added, as the
went to work with his sheath knife. What's the matter?
I wanna know? Just tell me that, willya? What's the matter? Hey?
Kent was quite dead when they rolled him over the gun.
An old fashioned, heavy weighted muzzle loader lay near him.
Steel and wood had parted company near the butt of
the right hand barrel, with lips pressed outward gaped a
fissure several inches in length. The sailor picked it up curiously.
A glittering stream of yellow dust ran through the crack.
The facts of the case dawned upon Jim Cardegie, strike
me standin' he roared ears, you go, ears as bloomin' dust.
God blimey, And you too, Charlie, if you don't run
and get the dishpanen end of the man with the
gash