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The Great Interrogation
Jack London
To say the least, Mrs. Sayther's career in Dawson was meteoric. She arrived in the spring,
with dog sleds and French-Canadian voyageurs, blazed gloriously for a brief month, and
departed up the river as soon as it was free of ice. Now womanless Dawson never quite
understood this hurried departure, and the local Four Hundred felt aggrieved and lonely till
the Nome strike was made and old sensations gave way to new. For it had delighted in Mrs.
Sayther, and received her wide-armed. She was pretty, charming, and, moreover, a widow.
And because of this she at once had at heel any number of Eldorado Kings, officials, and
adventuring younger sons, whose ears were yearning for the frou-frou of a woman's skirts.
The mining engineers revered the memory of her husband, the late Colonel Sayther, while
the syndicate and promoter representatives spoke awesomely of his deals and
manipulations; for he was known down in the States as a great mining man, and as even a
greater one in London. Why his widow, of all women, should have come into the country,
was the great interrogation. But they were a practical breed, the men of the Northland, with
a wholesome disregard for theories and a firm grip on facts. And to not a few of them Karen
Sayther was a most essential fact. That she did not regard the matter in this light, is
evidenced by the neatness and celerity with which refusal and proposal tallied off during
her four weeks' stay. And with her vanished the fact, and only the interrogation remained.
To the solution, Chance vouchsafed one clew. Her last victim, Jack Coughran, having
fruitlessly laid at her feet both his heart and a five-hundred-foot creek claim on Bonanza,
celebrated the misfortune by walking all of a night with the gods. In the midwatch of this
night he happened to rub shoulders with Pierre Fontaine, none other than head man of
Karen Sayther's voyageurs. This rubbing of shoulders led to recognition and drinks, and
ultimately involved both men in a common muddle of inebriety.
"Heh?" Pierre Fontaine later on gurgled thickly. "Vot for Madame Sayther mak visitation to
thees country? More better you spik wit her. I know no t'ing 'tall, only all de tam her ask
one man's name. 'Pierre,' her spik wit me; 'Pierre, you moos' find thees mans, and I gif you
mooch--one thousand dollar you find thees mans.' Thees mans? Ah, oui. Thees man's
name--vot you call-- Daveed Payne. Oui, m'sieu, Daveed Payne. All de tam her spik das
name. And all de tam I look rount vaire mooch, work lak hell, but no can find das dam
mans, and no get one thousand dollar 'tall. By dam!
"Heh? Ah, oui. One tam dose mens vot come from Circle City, dose mens know thees
mans. Him Birch Creek, dey spik. And madame? Her say 'Bon!' and look happy lak
anyt'ing. And her spik wit me. 'Pierre,' her spik, 'harness de dogs. We go queek. We find
thees mans I gif you one thousand dollar more.' And I say, 'Oui, queek! Allons, madame!'
"For sure, I t'ink, das two thousand dollar mine. Bully boy! Den more mens come from
Circle City, and dey say no, das thees mans, Daveed Payne, come Dawson leel tam back. So
madame and I go not 'tall.
"Oui, m'sieu. Thees day madame spik. 'Pierre,' her spik, and gif me five hundred dollar, 'go
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buy poling-boat. To-morrow we go up de river.' Ah, oui, to-morrow, up de river, and das
dam Sitka Charley mak me pay for de poling-boat five hundred dollar. Dam!"
Thus it was, when Jack Coughran unburdened himself next day, that Dawson fell to
wondering who was this David Payne, and in what way his existence bore upon Karen
Sayther's. But that very day, as Pierre Fontaine had said, Mrs. Sayther and her barbaric crew
of voyageurs towed up the east bank to Klondike City, shot across to the west bank to
escape the bluffs, and disappeared amid the maze of islands to the south.
II
"Oui, madame, thees is de place. One, two, t'ree island below Stuart River. Thees is t'ree
island."
As he spoke, Pierre Fontaine drove his pole against the bank and held the stern of the boat
against the current. This thrust the bow in, till a nimble breed climbed ashore with the
painter and made fast.
"One leel tam, madame, I go look see."
A chorus of dogs marked his disappearance over the edge of the bank, but a minute later he
was back again.
"Oui, madame, thees is de cabin. I mak investigation. No can find mans at home. But him
no go vaire far, vaire long, or him no leave dogs. Him come queek, you bet!"
"Help me out, Pierre. I'm tired all over from the boat. You might have made it softer, you
know."
From a nest of furs amidships, Karen Sayther rose to her full height of slender fairness. But
if she looked lily-frail in her elemental environment, she was belied by the grip she put
upon Pierre's hand, by the knotting of her woman's biceps as it took the weight of her body,
by the splendid effort of her limbs as they held her out from the perpendicular bank while
she made the ascent. Though shapely flesh clothed delicate frame, her body was a seat of
strength.
Still, for all the careless ease with which she had made the landing, there was a warmer
color than usual to her face, and a perceptibly extra beat to her heart. But then, also, it was
with a certain reverent curiousness that she approached the cabin, while the Hush on her
cheek showed a yet riper mellowness.
"Look, see!" Pierre pointed to the scattered chips by the woodpile. "Him fresh--two, t'ree
day, no more."
Mrs. Sayther nodded. She tried to peer through the small window, but it was made of
greased parchment which admitted light while it blocked vision. Failing this, she went
round to the door, half lifted the rude latch to enter, but changed her mind and let it fall
back into place. Then she suddenly dropped on one knee and kissed the rough-hewn
threshold. If Pierre Fontaine saw, he gave no sign, and the memory in the time to come was
ads:
never shared. But the next instant, one of the boatmen, placidly lighting his pipe, was
startled by an unwonted harshness in his captain's voice.
"Hey! You! Le Goire! You mak'm soft more better," Pierre commanded. "Plenty bear-skin;
plenty blanket. Dam!"
But the nest was soon after disrupted, and the major portion tossed up to the crest of the
shore, where Mrs. Sayther lay down to wait in comfort.
Reclining on her side, she looked out and over the wide-stretching Yukon. Above the
mountains which lay beyond the further shore, the sky was murky with the smoke of unseen
forest fires, and through this the afternoon sun broke feebly, throwing a vague radiance to
earth, and unreal shadows. To the sky-line of the four quarters--spruce-shrouded islands,
dark waters, and ice- scarred rocky ridges--stretched the immaculate wilderness. No sign of
human existence broke the solitude; no sound the stillness. The land seemed bound under
the unreality of the unknown, wrapped in the brooding mystery of great spaces.
Perhaps it was this which made Mrs. Sayther nervous; for she changed her position
constantly, now to look up the river, now down, or to scan the gloomy shores for the half-
hidden mouths of back channels. After an hour or so the boatmen were sent ashore to pitch
camp for the night, but Pierre remained with his mistress to watch.
"Ah! him come thees tam," he whispered, after a long silence, his gaze bent up the river to
the head of the island.
A canoe, with a paddle flashing on either side, was slipping down the current. In the stern a
man's form, and in the bow a woman's, swung rhythmically to the work. Mrs. Sayther had
no eyes for the woman till the canoe drove in closer and her bizarre beauty peremptorily
demanded notice. A close-fitting blouse of moose- skin, fantastically beaded, outlined
faithfully the well-rounded lines of her body, while a silken kerchief, gay of color and
picturesquely draped, partly covered great masses of blue-black hair. But it was the face,
cast belike in copper bronze, which caught and held Mrs. Sayther's fleeting glance. Eyes,
piercing and black and large, with a traditionary hint of obliqueness, looked forth from
under clear-stencilled, clean-arching brows. Without suggesting cadaverousness, though
high-boned and prominent, the cheeks fell away and met in a mouth, thin-lipped and softly
strong. It was a face which advertised the dimmest trace of ancient Mongol blood, a
reversion, after long centuries of wandering, to the parent stem. This effect was heightened
by the delicately aquiline nose with its thin trembling nostrils, and by the general air of
eagle wildness which seemed to characterize not only the face but the creature herself. She
was, in fact, the Tartar type modified to idealization, and the tribe of Red Indian is lucky
that breeds such a unique body once in a score of generations.
Dipping long strokes and strong, the girl, in concert with the man, suddenly whirled the tiny
craft about against the current and brought it gently to the shore. Another instant and she
stood at the top of the bank, heaving up by rope, hand under hand, a quarter of fresh-killed
moose. Then the man followed her, and together, with a swift rush, they drew up the canoe.
The dogs were in a whining mass about them, and as the girl stooped among them
caressingly, the man's gaze fell upon Mrs. Sayther, who had arisen. He looked, brushed his
eyes unconsciously as though his sight were deceiving him, and looked again.
"Karen," he said simply, coming forward and extending his hand, "I thought for the moment
I was dreaming. I went snow-blind for a time, this spring, and since then my eyes have been
playing tricks with me."
Mrs. Sayther, whose flush had deepened and whose heart was urging painfully, had been
prepared for almost anything save this coolly extended hand; but she tactfully curbed
herself and grasped it heartily with her own.
"You know, Dave, I threatened often to come, and I would have, too, only--only--"
"Only I didn't give the word." David Payne laughed and watched the Indian girl
disappearing into the cabin.
"Oh, I understand, Dave, and had I been in your place I'd most probably have done the
same. But I have come--now."
"Then come a little bit farther, into the cabin and get something to eat," he said genially,
ignoring or missing the feminine suggestion of appeal in her voice. "And you must be tired
too. Which way are you travelling? Up? Then you wintered in Dawson, or came in on the
last ice. Your camp?" He glanced at the voyageurs circled about the fire in the open, and
held back the door for her to enter.
"I came up on the ice from Circle City last winter," he continued, "and settled down here for
a while. Am prospecting some on Henderson Creek, and if that fails, have been thinking of
trying my hand this fall up the Stuart River."
"You aren't changed much, are you?" she asked irrelevantly, striving to throw the
conversation upon a more personal basis.
"A little less flesh, perhaps, and a little more muscle. How did you mean?"
But she shrugged her shoulders and peered I through the dim light at the Indian girl, who
had lighted the fire and was frying great chunks of moose meat, alternated with thin ribbons
of bacon.
"Did you stop in Dawson long?" The man was whittling a stave of birchwood into a rude
axe-handle, and asked the question without raising his head.
"Oh, a few days," she answered, following the girl with her eyes, and hardly hearing. "What
were you saying? In Dawson? A month, in fact, and glad to get away. The arctic male is
elemental, you know, and somewhat strenuous in his feelings."
"Bound to be when he gets right down to the soil. He leaves convention with the spring bed
at borne. But you were wise in your choice of time for leaving. You'll be out of the country
before mosquito season, which is a blessing your lack of experience will not permit you to
appreciate."
"I suppose not. But tell me about yourself, about your life. What kind of neighbors have
you? Or have you any?"
While she queried she watched the girl grinding coffee in the corner of a flower sack upon
the hearthstone. With a steadiness and skill which predicated nerves as primitive as the
method, she crushed the imprisoned berries with a heavy fragment of quartz. David Payne
noted his visitor's gaze, and the shadow of a smile drifted over his lips.
"I did have some," he replied. "Missourian chaps, and a couple of Cornishmen, but they
went down to Eldorado to work at wages for a grubstake."
Mrs. Sayther cast a look of speculative regard upon the girl. "But of course there are plenty
of Indians about?"
"Every mother's son of them down to Dawson long ago. Not a native in the whole country,
barring Winapie here, and she's a Koyokuk lass,--comes from a thousand miles or so down
the river."
Mrs. Sayther felt suddenly faint; and though the smile of interest in no wise waned, the face
of the man seemed to draw away to a telescopic distance, and the tiered logs of the cabin to
whirl drunkenly about. But she was bidden draw up to the table, and during the meal
discovered time and space in which to find herself. She talked little, and that principally
about the land and weather, while the man wandered off into a long description of the
difference between the shallow summer diggings of the Lower Country and the deep winter
diggings of the Upper Country.
"You do not ask why I came north?" she asked. "Surely you know." They had moved back
from the table, and David Payne had returned to his axe-handle. "Did you get my letter?"
"A last one? No, I don't think so. Most probably it's trailing around the Birch Creek Country
or lying in some trader's shack on the Lower River. The way they run the mails in here is
shameful. No order, no system, no--"
"Don't be wooden, Dave! Help me!" She spoke sharply now, with an assumption of
authority which rested upon the past. "Why don't you ask me about myself? About those we
knew in the old times? Have you no longer any interest in the world? Do you know that my
husband is dead?"
"Indeed, I am sorry. How long--"
"David!" She was ready to cry with vexation, but the reproach she threw into her voice
eased her.
"Did you get any of my letters? You must have got some of them, though you never
answered."
"Well, I didn't get the last one, announcing, evidently, the death of your husband, and most
likely others went astray; but I did get some. I--er--read them aloud to Winapie as a
warning--that is, you know, to impress upon her the wickedness of her white sisters. And I--
er--think she profited by it. Don't you?"
She disregarded the sting, and went on. "In the last letter, which you did not receive, I told,
as you have guessed, of Colonel Sayther's death. That was a year ago. I also said that if you
did not come out to me, I would go in to you. And as I had often promised, I came."
"I know of no promise."
"In the earlier letters?"
"Yes, you promised, but as I neither asked nor answered, it was unratified. So I do not know
of any such promise. But I do know of another, which you, too, may remember. It was very
long ago." He dropped the axe-handle to the floor and raised his head. "It was so very long
ago, yet I remember it distinctly, the day, the time, every detail. We were in a rose garden,
you and I,--your mother's rose garden. All things were budding, blossoming, and the sap of
spring was in our blood. And I drew you over--it was the first--and kissed you full on the
lips. Don't you remember?"
"Don't go over it, Dave, don't! I know every shameful line of it. How often have I wept! If
you only knew how I have suffered--"
"You promised me then--ay, and a thousand times in the sweet days that followed. Each
look of your eyes, each touch of your hand, each syllable that fell from your lips, was a
promise. And then-- how shall I say?--there came a man. He was old--old enough to have
begotten you--and not nice to look upon, but as the world goes, clean. He had done no
wrong, followed the letter of the law, was respectable. Further, and to the point, he
possessed some several paltry mines,--a score; it does not matter: and he owned a few miles
of lands, and engineered deals, and clipped coupons. He--"
"But there were other things," she interrupted, "I told you. Pressure--money matters--want--
my people--trouble. You understood the whole sordid situation. I could not help it. It was
not my will. I was sacrificed, or I sacrificed, have it as you wish. But, my God! Dave, I gave
you up! You never did me justice. Think what I have gone through!"
"It was not your will? Pressure? Under high heaven there was no thing to will you to this
man's bed or that."
"But I cared for you all the time," she pleaded.
"I was unused to your way of measuring love. I am still unused. I do not understand."
"But now! now!"
"We were speaking of this man you saw fit to marry. What manner of man was he?
Wherein did he charm your soul? What potent virtues were his? True, he had a golden
grip,--an almighty golden grip. He knew the odds. He was versed in cent per cent. He had a
narrow wit and excellent judgment of the viler parts, whereby he transferred this man's
money to his pockets, and that man's money, and the next man's. And the law smiled. In
that it did not condemn, our Christian ethics approved. By social measure he was not a bad
man. But by your measure, Karen, by mine, by ours of the rose garden, what was he?"
"Remember, he is dead."
"The fact is not altered thereby. What was he? A great, gross, material creature, deaf to
song, blind to beauty, dead to the spirit. He was fat with laziness, and flabby-cheeked, and
the round of his belly witnessed his gluttony--"
"But he is dead. It is we who are now--now! now! Don't you hear? As you say, I have been
inconstant. I have sinned. Good. But should not you, too, cry peccavi? If I have broken
promises, have not you? Your love of the rose garden was of all time, or so you said. Where
is it now?"
"It is here! now!" he cried, striking his breast passionately with clenched hand. "It has
always been."
"And your love was a great love; there was none greater," she continued; "or so you said in
the rose garden. Yet it is not fine enough, large enough, to forgive me here, crying now at
your feet?"
The man hesitated. His mouth opened; words shaped vainly on his lips. She had forced him
to bare his heart and speak truths which he had hidden from himself. And she was good to
look upon, standing there in a glory of passion, calling back old associations and warmer
life. He turned away his head that he might not see, but she passed around and fronted him.
"Look at me, Dave! Look at me! I am the same, after all. And so are you, if you would but
see. We are not changed."
Her hand rested on his shoulder, and his had half-passed, roughly, about her, when the
sharp crackle of a match startled him to himself. Winapie, alien to the scene, was lighting
the slow wick of the slush lamp. She appeared to start out against a background of utter
black, and the flame, flaring suddenly up, lighted her bronze beauty to royal gold.
"You see, it is impossible," he groaned, thrusting the fair-haired woman gently from him.
"It is impossible," he repeated. "It is impossible."
"I am not a girl, Dave, with a girl's illusions," she said softly, though not daring to come
back to him. "It is as a woman that I understand. Men are men. A common custom of the
country. I am not shocked. I divined it from the first. But--ah!--it is only a marriage of the
country--not a real marriage?"
"We do not ask such questions in Alaska," he interposed feebly.
"I know, but--"
"Well, then, it is only a marriage of the country--nothing else."
"And there are no children?"
"No."
"Nor--"
"No, no; nothing--but it is impossible."
"But it is not." She was at his side again, her hand touching lightly, caressingly, the
sunburned back of his. "I know the custom of the land too well. Men do it every day. They
do not care to remain here, shut out from the world, for all their days; so they give an order
on the P. C. C. Company for a year's provisions, some money in hand, and the girl is
content. By the end of that time, a man--" She shrugged her shoulders. "And so with the girl
here. We will give her an order upon the company, not for a year, but for life. What was she
when you found her? A raw, meat-eating savage; fish in summer, moose in winter, feasting
in plenty, starving in famine. But for you that is what she would have remained. For your
coming she was happier; for your going, surely, with a life of comparative splendor assured,
she will be happier than if you had never been."
"No, no," he protested. "It is not right."
"Come, Dave, you must see. She is not your kind. There is no race affinity. She is an
aborigine, sprung from the soil, yet close to the soil, and impossible to lift from the soil.
Born savage, savage she will die. But we--you and I--the dominant, evolved race--the salt of
the earth and the masters thereof! We are made for each other. The supreme call is of kind,
and we are of kind. Reason and feeling dictate it. Your very instinct demands it. That you
cannot deny. You cannot escape the generations behind you. Yours is an ancestry which has
survived for a thousand centuries, and for a hundred thousand centuries, and your line must
not stop here. It cannot. Your ancestry will not permit it. Instinct is stronger than the will.
The race is mightier than you. Come, Dave, let us go. We are young yet, and life is good.
Come."
Winapie, passing out of the cabin to feed the dogs, caught his attention and caused him to
shake his head and weakly to reiterate. But the woman's hand slipped about his neck, and
her cheek pressed to his. His bleak life rose up and smote him,--the vain struggle with
pitiless forces; the dreary years of frost and famine; the harsh and jarring contact with
elemental life; the aching void which mere animal existence could not fill. And there,
seduction by his side, whispering of brighter, warmer lands, of music, light, and joy, called
the old times back again. He visioned it unconsciously. Faces rushed in upon him; glimpses
of forgotten scenes, memories of merry hours; strains of song and trills of laughter -
"Come, Dave, Come. I have for both. The way is soft." She looked about her at the bare
furnishings of the cabin. "I have for both. The world is at our feet, and all joy is ours.
Come! come!"
She was in his arms, trembling, and he held her tightly. He rose to his feet . . . But the
snarling of hungry dogs, and the shrill cries of Winapie bringing about peace between the
combatants, came muffled to his ear through the heavy logs. And another scene flashed
before him. A struggle in the forest,--a bald-face grizzly, broken-legged, terrible; the
snarling of the dogs and the shrill cries of Winapie as she urged them to the attack; himself
in the midst of the crush, breathless, panting, striving to hold off red death; broken-backed,
entrail-ripped dogs howling in impotent anguish and desecrating the snow; the virgin white
running scarlet with the blood of man and beast; the bear, ferocious, irresistible, crunching,
crunching down to the core of his life; and Winapie, at the last, in the thick of the frightful
muddle, hair flying, eyes flashing, fury incarnate, passing the long hunting knife again and
again--Sweat started to his forehead. He shook off the clinging woman and staggered back
to the wall. And she, knowing that the moment had come, but unable to divine what was
passing within him, felt all she had gained slipping away.
"Dave! Dave!" she cried. "I will not give you up! I will not give you up! If you do not wish
to come, we will stay. I will stay with you. The world is less to me than are you. I will be a
Northland wife to you. I will cook your food, feed your dogs, break trail for you, lift a
paddle with you. I can do it. Believe me, I am strong."
Nor did he doubt it, looking upon her and holding her off from him; but his face had grown
stern and gray, and the warmth had died out of his eyes.
"I will pay off Pierre and the boatmen, and let them go. And I will stay with you, priest or
no priest, minister or no minister; go with you, now, anywhere! Dave! Dave! Listen to me!
You say I did you wrong in the past--and I did--let me make up for it, let me atone. If I did
not rightly measure love before, let me show that I can now."
She sank to the floor and threw her arms about his knees, sobbing. "And you do care for
me. You do care for me. Think! The long years I have waited, suffered! You can never
know!" He stooped and raised her to her feet.
"Listen," he commanded, opening the door and lifting her bodily outside. "It cannot be. We
are not alone to be considered. You must go. I wish you a safe journey. You will find it
tougher work when you get up by the Sixty Mile, but you have the best boatmen in the
world, and will get through all right. Will you say good-by?"
Though she already had herself in hand, she looked at him hopelessly. "If--if--if Winapie
should--" She quavered and stopped.
But he grasped the unspoken thought, and answered, "Yes." Then struck with the enormity
of it, "It cannot be conceived. There is no likelihood. It must not be entertained."
"Kiss me," she whispered, her face lighting. Then she turned and went away.
"Break camp, Pierre," she said to the boatman, who alone had remained awake against her
return. "We must be going."
By the firelight his sharp eyes scanned the woe in her face, but he received the
extraordinary command as though it were the most usual thing in the world. "Oui,
madame," he assented. "Which way? Dawson?"
"No," she answered, lightly enough; "up; out; Dyea."
Whereat he fell upon the sleeping voyageurs, kicking them, grunting, from their blankets,
and buckling them down to the work, the while his voice, vibrant with action, shrilling
through all the camp. In a trice Mrs. Sayther's tiny tent had been struck, pots and pans were
being gathered up, blankets rolled, and the men staggering under the loads to the boat. Here,
on the banks, Mrs. Sayther waited till the luggage was made ship-shape and her nest
prepared.
"We line up to de head of de island," Pierre explained to her while running out the long tow
rope. "Den we tak to das back channel, where de water not queek, and I t'ink we mak good
tam."
A scuffling and pattering of feet in the last year's dry grass caught his quick ear, and he
turned his head. The Indian girl, circled by a bristling ring of wolf dogs, was coming toward
them. Mrs. Sayther noted that the girl's face, which had been apathetic throughout the scene
in the cabin, had now quickened into blazing and wrathful life.
"What you do my man?" she demanded abruptly of Mrs. Sayther. "Him lay on bunk, and
him look bad all the time. I say, 'What the matter, Dave? You sick?' But him no say
nothing. After that him say, 'Good girl Winapie, go way. I be all right bimeby.' What you do
my man, eh? I think you bad woman."
Mrs. Sayther looked curiously at the barbarian woman who shared the life of this man,
while she departed alone in the darkness of night.
"I think you bad woman," Winapie repeated in the slow, methodical way of one who gropes
for strange words in an alien tongue. "I think better you go way, no come no more. Eh?
What you think? I have one man. I Indian girl. You 'Merican woman. You good to see. You
find plenty men. Your eyes blue like the sky. Your skin so white, so soft."
Coolly she thrust out a brown forefinger and pressed the soft cheek of the other woman.
And to the eternal credit of Karen Sayther, she never flinched. Pierre hesitated and half
stepped forward; but she motioned him away, though her heart welled to him with secret
gratitude. "It's all right, Pierre," she said. "Please go away."
He stepped back respectfully out of earshot, where he stood grumbling to himself and
measuring the distance in springs.
"Um white, um soft, like baby." Winapie touched the other cheek and withdrew her hand.
"Bimeby mosquito come. Skin get sore in spot; um swell, oh, so big; um hurt, oh, so much.
Plenty mosquito; plenty spot. I think better you go now before mosquito come. This way,"
pointing down the stream, "you go St. Michael's; that way," pointing up, "you go Dyea.
Better you go Dyea. Good- by."
And that which Mrs. Sayther then did, caused Pierre to marvel greatly. For she threw her
arms around the Indian girl, kissed her, and burst into tears.
"Be good to him," she cried. "Be good to him."
Then she slipped half down the face of the bank, called back "Good-by," and dropped into
the boat amidships. Pierre followed her and cast off. He shoved the steering oar into place
and gave the signal. Le Goire lifted an old French chanson; the men, like a row of ghosts in
the dim starlight, bent their backs to the tow line; the steering oar cut the black current
sharply, and the boat swept out into the night.
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