A Day's Lodging Page #2

"A Day's Lodging" is a compelling short story by Jack London that explores themes of poverty, survival, and the human spirit. Set against the backdrop of a harsh winter, the narrative follows a destitute man who seeks shelter for the night. As he navigates the challenges of his circumstances, London delves into the stark realities of life on the fringes of society, highlighting both the resilience and vulnerability of his characters. The story captures the essence of human struggle and the small acts of kindness that can provide solace amidst adversity.

								


Peering through the steam, he could make out but little of their
personal appearance. The nose and cheek strap worn by the woman and the
trail-wrappings about her head allowed only a pair of black eyes to be
seen. The man was dark-eyed and smooth-shaven all except his mustache,
which was so iced up as to hide his mouth.

"We just wanted to know if there is any other cabin around here," he
said, at the same time glancing over the unfurnished state of the room.
"We thought this cabin was empty."

"It isn't my cabin," Messner answered. "I just found it a few minutes
ago. Come right in and camp. Plenty of room, and you won't need your
stove. There's room for all."

At the sound of his voice the woman peered at him with quick
curiousness.

"Get your things off," her companion said to her. "I'll unhitch and get
the water so we can start cooking."

Messner took the thawed salmon outside and fed his dogs. He had to
guard them against the second team of dogs, and when he had reëntered
the cabin the other man had unpacked the sled and fetched water.
Messner's pot was boiling. He threw in the coffee, settled it with half
a cup of cold water, and took the pot from the stove. He thawed some
sour-dough biscuits in the oven, at the same time heating a pot of
beans he had boiled the night before and that had ridden frozen on the
sled all morning.

Removing his utensils from the stove, so as to give the newcomers a
chance to cook, he proceeded to take his meal from the top of his
grub-box, himself sitting on his bed-roll. Between mouthfuls he talked
trail and dogs with the man, who, with head over the stove, was thawing
the ice from his mustache. There were two bunks in the cabin, and into
one of them, when he had cleared his lip, the stranger tossed his
bed-roll.

"We'll sleep here," he said, "unless you prefer this bunk. You're the
first comer and you have first choice, you know."

"That's all right," Messner answered. "One bunk's just as good as the
other."

He spread his own bedding in the second bunk, and sat down on the edge.
The stranger thrust a physician's small travelling case under his
blankets at one end to serve for a pillow.

"Doctor?" Messner asked.

"Yes," came the answer, "but I assure you I didn't come into the
Klondike to practise."

The woman busied herself with cooking, while the man sliced bacon and
fired the stove. The light in the cabin was dim, filtering through in
a small window made of onion-skin writing paper and oiled with bacon
grease, so that John Messner could not make out very well what the
woman looked like. Not that he tried. He seemed to have no interest in
her. But she glanced curiously from time to time into the dark corner
where he sat.

"Oh, it's a great life," the doctor proclaimed enthusiastically,
pausing from sharpening his knife on the stovepipe. "What I like
about it is the struggle, the endeavor with one's own hands, the
primitiveness of it, the realness."

"The temperature is real enough," Messner laughed.

"Do you know how cold it actually is?" the doctor demanded.

The other shook his head.

"Well, I'll tell you. Seventy-four below zero by spirit thermometer on
the sled."

"That's one hundred and six below freezing point--too cold for
travelling, eh?"

"Practically suicide," was the doctor's verdict. "One exerts himself.
He breathes heavily, taking into his lungs the frost itself. It chills
his lungs, freezes the edges of the tissues. He gets a dry, hacking
cough as the dead tissue sloughs away, and dies the following summer of
pneumonia, wondering what it's all about. I'll stay in this cabin for a
week, unless the thermometer rises at least to fifty below."

"I say, Tess," he said, the next moment, "don't you think that coffee's
boiled long enough!"

At the sound of the woman's name, John Messner became suddenly
alert. He looked at her quickly, while across his face shot a
haunting expression, the ghost of some buried misery achieving swift
resurrection. But the next moment, and by an effort of will, the ghost
was laid again. His face was as placid as before, though he was still
alert, dissatisfied with what the feeble light had shown him of the
woman's face.

Automatically, her first act had been to set the coffee-pot back.
It was not until she had done this that she glanced at Messner. But
already he had composed himself. She saw only a man sitting on the edge
of the bunk and incuriously studying the toes of his moccasins. But, as
she turned casually to go about her cooking, he shot another swift look
at her, and she, glancing as swiftly back, caught his look. He shifted
on past her to the doctor, though the slightest smile curled his lip in
appreciation of the way she had trapped him.

She drew a candle from the grub-box and lighted it. One look at her
illuminated face was enough for Messner. In the small cabin the widest
limit was only a matter of several steps, and the next moment she was
alongside of him. She deliberately held the candle close to his face
and stared at him out of eyes wide with fear and recognition. He smiled
quietly back at her.

"What are you looking for, Tess?" the doctor called.

"Hairpins," she replied, passing on and rummaging in a clothes-bag on
the bunk.

They served their meal on their grub-box, sitting on Messner's grub-box
and facing him. He had stretched out on his bunk to rest, lying on his
side, his head on his arm. In the close quarters it was as though the
three were together at table.

"What part of the States do you come from?" Messner asked.

"San Francisco," answered the doctor. "I've been in here two years,
though."

"I hail from California myself," was Messner's announcement.

The woman looked at him appealingly, but he smiled and went on:

"Berkeley, you know."

The other man was becoming interested.

"U. C.?" he asked.

"Yes, Class of '86."

"I meant faculty," the doctor explained. "You remind me of the type."

"Sorry to hear you say so," Messner smiled back. "I'd prefer being
taken for a prospector or a dog-musher."

"I don't think he looks any more like a professor than you do a
doctor," the woman broke in.

"Thank you," said Messner. Then, turning to her companion, "By the way,
Doctor, what is your name, if I may ask?"

"Haythorne, if you'll take my word for it. I gave up cards with
civilization."

"And Mrs. Haythorne," Messner smiled and bowed.

She flashed a look at him that was more anger than appeal.

Haythorne was about to ask the other's name. His mouth had opened to
form the question when Messner cut him off.

"Come to think of it, Doctor, you may possibly be able to satisfy my
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