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[Illustration: Sandy was a good swimmer and he struck out valiantly.
_Page 58._]
THE BUNGALOW BOYS ALONG THE YUKON
by
DEXTER J. FORRESTER
Author of "The Bungalow Boys," "The Bungalow Boys Marooned in
The Tropics," "The Bungalow Boys in the Great Northwest," "The
Bungalow Boys on the Great Lakes," etc., etc.
With Four Illustrations by Charles L. Wrenn
New York
Hurst & Company
Publishers
Copyright, 1913
by
Hurst & Company
CONTENTS
CHAPTER
I. A MYSTERIOUS CRAFT
II. NORTHWARD HO!
III. MR. DACRE EXPLAINS
IV. SANDY FINDS A MASCOT
V. A MID-OCEAN HUNTING TRIP
VI. A LIBATION TO THE TOTEM
VII. AN ADVENTURE OF JACK'S
VIII. "THE TALE OF A WHALE"
IX. WILD WATERS
X. THE TIDAL "BORE"
XI. ADRIFT ON THE OCEAN
XII. SHIFTING FOR THEMSELVES
XIII. AN ISLAND LIFE
XIV. THE GREAT BEARS OF KADIAK
XV. HEMMED IN
XVI. UNCERTAINTY
XVII. THE YUKON ROVER
XVIII. AN ENCOUNTER WITH THE NATIVES
XIX. HARD ASHORE
XX. DOWN THE GLACIER
XXI. THE GRIP OF THE YUKON
XXII. TWO STRANGE VISITORS
XXIII. OLAF'S GREAT LESSON
XXIV. ON THE PORCUPINE RIVER
XXV. THE MYSTERIOUS MEN
XXVI. THE DEAD MAN'S MINE
XXVII. IN NEED OF A FRIEND
XXVIII. --AND A FRIEND IN NEED
XXIX. CONDEMNED TO THE MINES
XXX. THE GRASP OF CIRCUMSTANCE
THE BUNGALOW BOYS ALONG THE YUKON
CHAPTER I.
A MYSTERIOUS CRAFT.
On a certain May afternoon, Tom Jessop, assigned to "cover" the
Seattle waterfront for his paper, the _Seattle Post-Intelligencer_,
had his curiosity aroused by a craft that lay at the Spring Street
dock. The vessel was newly painted, trim and trig in appearance and
was seemingly of about two thousand tons register. Amidships was a
single yellow funnel. From the aftermost of the two masts fluttered a
blue flag with a square of white in the center. The reporter knew that
this was the "Blue Peter," flown in token that the steamer was about
to sail.
But the steamer, which bore the name of _Northerner_, flew no house
flag to indicate the line she belonged to, nor in the shipping news of
the day did her name appear. The reporter scented a "story" at once.
From some hangerson about the dock he found out that the strange craft
had formerly been the _James K. Thompson_, of San Francisco, in the
coastwise trade. She had been refitted and equipped at the Aetna Iron
Works by her purchaser, a Mr. Chisholm Dacre. That was all that the
longshoremen could tell him.
On the bridge was a stalwart form in a goldlaced cap indicating the
rank of captain. By his side stood a well-built man of middle age with
a crisp iron-gray beard neatly clipped and a sunburned face, from
which two keen blue eyes twinkled quizzically as he gazed down at the
figure of the reporter on the dock.
"Are you Mr. Dacre?" hailed the reporter, guessing that the bearded
man was the _Northerner's_new owner.
"That is my name. What can I do for you?" was the rejoinder.
"My name is Jessop. Ship-news man for the _Post-Intelligencer_. Can I
come on board?"
"I am afraid not, Mr. Jessop," rejoined Mr. Dacre, whom our readers
know as the Bungalow Boys' uncle. "What do you want?"
"Why, your destination, the object of your voyage and so forth."
"That will have to remain my private property for the time being," was
the reply in a kindly tone. "I appreciate your keenness in looking for
news, but I cannot divulge what you would like to know just now."
"It's no time for visiting, anyhow," said the sailor-like man at Mr.
Dacre's side, who Tom Jessop had guessed was the skipper of the
mysterious craft, "we'll soon be getting under way."
The young reporter's face grew fiery red.
"What line are you?" he demanded. "What's the game, anyway?"
"I am not at liberty to answer questions."
"Private craft, eh? Tramp?"
There was almost a sneer in his tones as he spoke. He was trying to
make the captain angry and by that means get him to talk. But the
other remained quite unruffled.
"Not in trade at all."
"Pleasure trip, eh? Why can't I come aboard?"
"Against orders."
Just then, and before the young newsgatherer could vent his
indignation further a cab came rattling up the dock and disgorged at
the foot of the _Northerner's_ gangplank three brightfaced,
happy-looking lads. They were Tom and Jack Dacre and their inseparable
chum, Sandy MacTavish, the voluble Scotch youth whose "thatch" and
freckles gave him his nickname. Jack was Tom's junior by two years,
but he was almost as muscular and tall as his brother. Both lads were
nephews of Mr. Dacre, who had given them their home in the Sawmill
Valley of Maine where they had acquired the name of "Bungalow Boys,"
by which they were known to a large circle of friends.
Tom Jessop turned from the captain to the new arrivals.
"Where is this vessel bound?" he asked.
"She clears this afternoon for Alaska," responded Tom Dacre.
The reporter's eye flashed a look of triumph upward at the bridge.
"In the northern trade?" he asked.
"I didn't say that," was the quiet rejoinder.
Tom Jessop began to get mad in good earnest. He swept his eyes over
the ship's decks. Amidships she carried an odd-looking pile of timber
and metal.
"A small steamer in sections, eh?" he questioned with a knowing look.
"You're right as to that," spoke Tom.
"Going gold dredging?"
"I can't say."
"Training ship for kids, maybe?"
"Well, I know some folks who might take lessons in good manners
without its hurting them a bit," flashed Jack angrily.
The reporter changed his tone to a more conciliatory one.
"You might help a fellow out," he said. "What are your names?"
"I guess we can tell you that much," said Tom. "I am Tom Dacre, this
is my brother, Jack, and this is our friend, Mr. MacTavish."
The good-natured Sandy broke into a grin at this formal introduction.
He was about to speak, but the reporter interrupted him.
"Dacre!" he exclaimed. "You're the kids that broke up that gang of
Chinese smugglers on the Sound a while ago!"
"You're unco canny to guess it," said Sandy. "We're the boys."
At this instant another figure appeared on the bridge--a tall man with
rough-looking clothes and a battered derby hat. It was the pilot. He
addressed Mr. Dacre.
"The tide serves, sir. If you are all ready, we'll get under way."
"Come, boys," hailed Mr. Dacre from the bridge. "Time to get aboard."
The three lads hastily gathered up the few packages that they had been
purchasing at the last moment. The cabman was paid and they bounded
with elastic strides up the gangway. As they reached the end of it,
the stern lines were cast off.
"Let go breast and bow lines," bawled the foghorn voice of the pilot.
The order was quickly executed. Jessop shouted something, but his
voice was drowned in the three mournful blasts of her siren that were
the _Northerner's_ farewell to Seattle. But the instant the whistle
ceased and the tug that was to tow the _Northerner_ into the stream
began to puff energetically, he found his voice again.
"S-a-y!" he shouted across the widening breach between the steamer and
the dock.
"Hullo!" hailed back Tom, who, with his two companions, stood at the
rail amidships watching the city they were leaving.
"Won't you tell me anything about this trip?"
"That's just it," hurled back Tom at the top of his voice, "we don't
know ourselves!"
"Well, I'll be jiggered!" exclaimed Tom Jessop as he turned away from
the dock and the moving vessel, which he now felt certain held a
mystery within her gray steel sides.