Such a heavenly day, sunshine with ice crystals, no wind.
Mumsie came into my room at peep of dawn, carrying a bundle. There was a
letter in it from Dad enclosing another hundred dollars for me to spend.
Dear old Dad! And then there was a parcel marked, “From Jack to his
Little Partner.” I undid the fastenings and there were four shaggy,
hairy skins. I could not make out what they were. And a pair of gloves
from Mumsie—women always give gloves. I tried on the gloves and Mumsie
suggested that we go to early service.
I jumped out of bed and as I dressed looked at the furs,—I had never
seen anything like them, so brown and glossy. What sort of an animal
could they have belonged to?
I went downstairs and saw a fire burning in the den and two men standing
before it—Uncle and Jack. So I entered the room, and a cheery voice
greeted me with “Merry Christmas!” and Uncle gathered me in his arms and
kissed me. Mr. Bang, rather dolefully echoed: “Merry Christmas!” It
struck me as strange that Uncle had not given me a present, even if only
a handkerchief. I shook hands with Mr. Bang and said, “Thank you very
much for the skins.”
“They’re nothing,” he replied almost indifferently. “Uncle is going to
have them made into a muff and collar for you as his present. I got the
skins from an Indian. You see,” continued he in his usual tone, “the
British Columbia government has shut down on the destruction of beaver
for a number of years to save these animals from becoming extinct, and
it is against the law to have the skins in one’s possession.”
“Oh!” I exclaimed, “then you ran chances of being fined for my sake. How
good you are!”
“No, not so good, as I did not know of your existence at the time, and
could hardly have been concerned with that. What I mean is that they did
not cost me much. As the animals were already dead my conscience did not
trouble me and I took particular pains to give such small value for the
skins, that I don’t fancy the noble red man will think it worth his
while to break the law again.”
I do not know how to describe the manner of address used by Mr. Bang to
me and I have borrowed Uncle’s dictionary to help me out. “Didactic”
will hardly do, nor will “pedantic.” Perhaps “patronizing” is the only
term that I can apply to it, but then “patronizing” is not quite just.
Of course, Uncle is equally guilty at times, but only at times; and I
love Uncle. And if I am to have a complete set of furs at their hands, I
can forgive much! Perhaps “elderly” or “condescending” is the word: but
it doesn’t matter.
But were Mr. Bang and Uncle serious. Beaver!—I have seen beaver, soft,
grey, delicate fur, and this is bristling like a porcupine almost. So I
thought I would begin a question and then stammer. If I laughed
prettily, I could appear innocent: and I did so successfully, though
there is often a doubtful, pitying look in Jack’s quizzical, grey eyes.
“Oh! Uncle do tell me, are beavers ever born with—with—Oh, I don’t
know—something like—first cousin—Porcupine—long hairs—”
“Oh,” laughed Uncle, while Mr. Bang grinned broadly, “You are troubled
over the shaggy appearance of the skins. They have not been plucked—the
long coarse hairs are generally plucked from the beaver, otter, fur
seal, and a few others, when the fur remaining is soft and silky.”
“And I may have mine made into real beaver—how lovely!”
“I would suggest,” put in Mr. Bang, still smiling, “that you leave them
as they are, they would become you and not be unfashionable.”
“Would they?” I asked, impetuously turning to Uncle.
“As Jack suggests, I think they would be becoming,” and Uncle smiled.
“You can always trust Jack.”
“Then I shall,” I said and left them. I meant leave the skins as they
were, and if they thought I meant trusting Jack that is their look-out.
After breakfast I saw Bowman, the man who tends Uncle’s furnace and
clears away the snow, passing out into the street with a cigar box under
his arm. I was sure it was the box I gave Uncle. I thought I would
investigate so I went into the den where the two men were smoking. They
were enjoying cigars, the odour of which seemed fine.
“Oh Uncle!” I cried, “I’m so glad to find you smoking. I noticed Bowman
with a cigar box under his arm and I wondered——”
“Bowman takes such things as empty cigar boxes as his perquisites,
see!”—and Uncle took a jar off the mantle and removing the cover showed
me many cigars. Both of them then laughed. I was very annoyed.
Whenever I am in Mr. Bang’s presence he gazes intently at me and I am
beginning to loathe his quiet smile. Nothing escapes him, and after
Uncle’s explanation I’m sure he saw me start as I noticed a half
consumed cigar box in the grate. Evidently there were the contents of
two boxes of cigars in the jar.
In any case I won’t trouble my head about what Uncle did with my cigars.
I dislike men very much sometimes.
Dinner came at four and Mumsie had the table looking like a dream, such
a sparkle of glass and silver, setting off the roses and carnations
nicely. And the holly and mistletoe, which over-shadowed the lamp, and
the bon-bons,—the crackers lying on each napkin! Oh, it was delicious!
I may say heavenly.
Mumsie was at her brightest, looking the picture of Christmas geniality.
Uncle, too, was particularly kind as he welcomed us to the feast.
Someway, I was impressed that all and everything were for me. All
Uncle’s pleasantries were addressed to me or for my benefit. I believe
Uncle is becoming fond of me.
His good nature seemed also to affect Mr. Bang, who told us stories of
his own, wild life, and incidents in the lives of others; and in his
calm way he can be very humorous. Then he told of the many strange
circumstances under which he had eaten his Christmas dinner—in camps,
in towns and cities, in hotels, in homes, in log cabins, even under
canvas. And then I noticed his mouth draw into a smile, as he fixed his
eyes on his wine glass which he kept absently turning.
“What have you in your mind, Jack?” asked Mumsie.
“I was thinking of the only Christmas dinner I ever ate away from
friends or acquaintances and how in this case, I met poor Tom Dahlmun.
It was in Dawson City, Christmas, 1900—”
“Tell us of it,” demanded Uncle.
“You never told us how you came to go to the Klondike,” said Mumsie;
“Please tell us about it.”
“To tell you how I came to go to the Klondike and my adventures in
getting there would be a longer story than you would care to listen to,”
he protested.
“Do, do tell us all about it,” I cried eagerly.
“Well, I will abstain from frills, and try and not weary you.”
“You won’t do that,” I said with assurance.
“With your permission, Auntie, I shall in my telling of my adventures
affect the manner of the miner at his camp-fire. Now and again I may
mention details that appear inconsequent.”
“Never mind, go on!”
“Well, about September, 1900, I was at Skagway on the Alaskan Coast
without money, and with no prospect of profitable employment.
“The Canadian Customs at Skagway gave me short jobs, but by the end of
the month they petered out and I was faced with the necessity of finding
means even for food.
“There seemed no alternative but to go south. But I harboured the idea
of going to Dawson and some fiend nourished it. No more quixotic plan
can ever have entered the mind of man, but I went.
“I crossed to White Horse, the port on the Upper Yukon River. The
thermometer had sunk below zero, though the weather was mild. I spent
some days figuring ways and means of carrying out my mad idea, and spent
more dollars than I could afford. I shall always maintain that
friendships struck up in a bar-room are productive of nothing but losses
and waste of time.
“Possibly I was inspired with a blind faith in fortune or I didn’t care
a ——— button. Somebody suggested I should try and work my way on one
of the steamers. I tried and failed. A good thing too, for I would have
earned little or no money that way and been landed five hundred miles
nearer the north pole, and so much further from civilization.
“Then came the voice of destiny; a man called from a scow tied to the
dock: ‘Do you want to go to Dawson? Give you seven and a half dollars
per day.’ ‘All right,’ said I.
“The wage was high, which is an indication that travel was not
northwards. The weather turned wonderfully mild, considering the recent
exploits of the thermometer, and the sun shone brightly as we set out to
the unknown. Only one of us had been down that river before.
“I was one of a party of six and our craft consisted of two scows lashed
together. Each scow contained twenty tons of freight, and three thousand
two hundred dollars was to be paid for transporting this to Dawson. My
companions consisted of the four owners and a chap who was working his
passage to his camp down the river, where he was engaged chopping wood
for sale to the river steamers.
“One of the owners was a Yankee, two were Scotch-Canadians, and one was
a Swede. The Yankee had worked all summer as deck-hand on a river
steamer and so had knowledge of the currents. One of the Scotchmen was a
Salvation Army man and the other just old Mac. The Swede was a decent
fellow. All but the Yankee were straight-forward. He, Alec, would never
look one in the face, and was of a nature soft and unassertive. I should
have felt more comfortable with him had he occasionally lost his temper
and sworn a bit. His only qualification was his knowledge of the river.
“I soon gathered the business details. The four owners had built one
scow and tried to sell it, but, through the lateness of the season and
difficulty in getting men to man it, were unable to dispose of it. So
they purchased another scow and essayed to get their money out of both
by contracting to deliver freight in Dawson.
“The joy of such a trip is the scenery; and then the appetite one is
blessed with! Our trip through the Thirty Mile was somewhat remarkable.
This river is a part of the Upper Yukon, and has caused more wrecks than
any other portion of the great waterway.
“It was strewn with wrecks of scows which had tried to get through in
the day time. We went through at night for the good and sufficient
reason that we could not stop.
“The Thirty Mile is very swift, and our Pilot was reluctant to tie up
any sooner than was absolutely necessary. In fact, on this occasion it
was I who made the suggestion that we moor to the bank ere darkness had
completely come.
“Strange to say my advice was acted upon; the pilot grabbed a rope and
ordered the scows to be diverted towards the left bank. Then he made a
spring, landed, and sought a tree to which he might tie up. There was
none, but rather a world of fallen brush. The scows were moving at
better than six miles per hour, and with the result that the pilot,
trying in vain to keep up with us, was forced to let go the rope. There
was only one thing to do, and that was for somebody on the scows to take
the dingey we had with us and row back for our mate. This was done with
the result that the scows were left with four men only to manage them.
The gloom settled over us and the shores were dimly visible, while we
swept down the canyon. A heavily-laden scow travels faster than the
current that bears it. This explains how we obtained a good lead on the
dingey. The light then failed, and the only thing visible was the
reflection of the sky on the water. I began to give orders, or, I had
better say, make suggestions. I became frightened of leaving the dingey
altogether, or of coming to other calamities, so I told my fellows I
would attempt to tie up the scows. Our shouts to the pilot and his
rescuer brought response from both up and down the river. There was
evidently a scow safely moored below us. Hastily we shouted our trouble,
and the crew of the moored scow said we might tie to them. Frantically
we worked to get the scows across the current for they were tied to the
right bank; it was no use, we passed them. But the impetus we gained was
carrying us into the right bank. Vaguely I saw the shadows, jumped, and
landed up to my hips in water. I scrambled ashore and ran into a wall of
rock. The rope I held tightened, and I followed its lead along the face
of the rock till I went in to my middle; and then I, too, let go the
rope.
“In due time, the boat picked me up and we set out in pursuit of the
scows. We gained on them; finally gathering from the shouting that the
woodcutter had gained the shore, had thrice snubbed the scows and the
scows three times pulled a tree up by the roots. So Alec shouted to let
the scows drift. We pulled the woodcutter into the boat and then
regained the scows.
“The moon had risen over the canyon and light and shadow, glimmering
water and sparkling skies, ranged themselves in wonderful combination,
all weird, some magnificent. I remember that besides marvelling at the
sights about me, I remarked the softness of the air. What the
thermometer was I do not know, it could not have been much, if at all,
above freezing, yet, while I was wet to the middle I have no
recollection of being cold.
“In due time we floated into a great lagoon on the shores of which was a
settlement. A dozen or so of river men and prospectors, a gambler or
two, and a couple of policemen here had their abode.
“The stillness of lone lands is one of their special features. I know I
enjoyed it, and my companions had no doubt some rude, unconscious
sympathy with the natural beauties. At any rate, as the hoarse laughter
floated across the lagoon it sounded a discord, and hearing it men
became quiet.
“I have spoken of our capacity for eating. I shall never forget the
moose tenderloin steaks we got from Indians at Little Salmon River. The
joy of eating! civilization knows nothing like it. The best of fresh
meat after weeks of bacon!
“At Little Salmon River, a tributary stream, the heavy frosts came upon
us again, and here an interesting development affected our night’s rest.
Our beds were made upon the cargo and beneath a great tarpaulin. No
poles suspended the canvas; it lay flat against the hay and oats that
constituted our load. The vapour arising from the comparatively warm
water in the scow, the water that would correspond to the bilge of a
ship, condensed upon the canvas. The effect was a coating of beautiful
ice crystals, some of them an inch long. In the daylight they showed the
most orderly system of spears and shafts, elaborate yet exact.
“As we crawled to our lairs at night the fairy-like ferns tingled
joyously and fell upon us in wintry showers. In the morning they melted
and drenched us. But we did well enough. Between times through the night
we slept, all standing, as the sailors say, warm and comfortable.
“Frost is a most powerful agent in the north land. As you may guess,
King Frost is a term used widely and not without reason. Indeed our
passage was eminently a kindly dispensation of the monarch. As day
succeeded day the ultimate closing of the mighty jaws of the river drew
nearer. The owners’ money, my money, all our fortunes, depended on the
absence of delays. Delays while inevitable, humanly speaking, were still
a matter of chance. We were held at the caprice of winter.
“Jack Frost is indeed versatile. Not only did he commence to throw cakes
of ice in the river, but placed a more active, if less tangible
hindrance in our way. Over the river in the early mom a billowy,
swaying, pink, yellow, purple, orange, blue mantle of mist hung. To
guide our craft it was necessary to see, for the Yukon’s stream has many
channels, only one of which, as a rule, is navigable for such a vessel
as ours. About us were sand bars and islands, and to run aground meant
loss of precious time, and possibly destruction.
“Of course, the sun rising would in time dissipate the fog, but while
Jack Frost and he had their morning game at tossing cloud banks, we
would lose an hour or two. As the days went by, and we lay further
towards the arctic circle, the frost became heavier and the daily range
of temperature less marked. About three days from our goal we ran into a
snow storm and passed a few tributaries throwing out lumps of ice. The
presence of floating ice, however, was a blessing, because it marked the
more shallow spots and helped us to avoid them. When the air was not
filled with snow, the skies were gray and sullen. It was a blessing
there was no wind.
“Our last night out from Dawson I remember distinctly. The running ice
had filled the river. At dusk we tied up at a woodcutter’s cabin, and
learned we had fifty miles still to go. We went to bed, under our
tingling tarpaulin; and, I remember, I lay awake just one minute
listening to the ice crashing into our craft. Would the planks hold? A
moment’s apprehension, and then—sleep.
“We started again at a perilously early hour. The ice had increased
enormously during the night. The river was ‘bank full’ as the term is;
it was a grinding, mixing lot. Had we struck a bar the rush of ice would
have piled us on so tight we never would have got off again. But to
offset this, the shore ice had now extended so far out that only the
deepest channels were running. We could not have got aground if we had
wanted to.
“At six o’clock the night had fallen; we heard the toot of a factory
whistle. Five hundred miles behind us we had left Whitehorse, an outpost
of civilization. We had travelled by an agency over which we had no
control five hundred miles, into a wilderness that ranged beyond the ken
of men. Here was an oasis. A whistle, discordant at most times, was
music to us then. It sang of dangers past.
“But our danger was not past until we succeeded in stopping. To be
carried beyond Dawson would be as great a calamity as to be stranded
above it. There was no difference so far as the discharge of our cargo
was concerned.
“The lights flashed out and a thousand times winked welcome,
irresistibly my mind fell to playing with the fact; here was a world in
miniature and I at the heart of it.
“The river before Dawson is broad and there is a deep eddy. Strangely
enough the eddy was yet unfrozen and free of ice. We struggled into the
still water and so to shore. It took us an hour’s hard labour to get
there. It was joy to hear a friendly hand on shore shout: ‘All fast!’
“We went to bed and slept as long as we liked: a luxury. Arising, we
found the world a riot of colour. The sun was up, the air was clear save
for the steam arising from the water, and the thermometer was twenty
below zero. Away out in mid-channel the ice-floes still ground
persistently on their way, but round about us was ice clear, black, and
resonant. We were frozen in.”
Here Mr. Bang paused and looked enquiringly at Mumsie. Uncle caught the
glance and reassured him.
“Go on, Jack, we’re interested.”
“Yes, Jack, indeed we are,” added Mumsie.
“And my Little Partner?” asked he.
“Oh! I am so interested, do go on.”
“I was in Dawson. I had made one hundred and ten dollars in wages on the
trip down besides twenty-five dollars, which I earned by bringing a
ballot-box in from the police post one hundred miles up the river.
Dawson had just enjoyed its first experience of the Franchise.
“Had I been wise I would have stayed with my friends, who prudently
secured a cabin and settled down for the winter. Instead of that, I
engaged a room at the principal hotel at a cost of four dollars per day,
European plan. Meals cost a dollar and a half each. Then instead of
borrowing a hand-sled and hauling my trunk up from the scow, as a
Dawsonite would have done, I engaged a boy with a dog. The dog’s name, I
remember, was ‘Sleepy’ and the youth charged two dollars. The distance,
be it said, was only about two hundred yards.
“As a matter of fact, Dawson was at that time remarkably free from
convention and prejudice. I had in mind to try for clerical work from
the Government. Had I been seen hauling my trunk through the streets or,
given my address as such and such a cabin, my chances would have been
none the less, while the dollars I might have saved would have
represented so much security against starvation. But perhaps my risking
an extravagant bid for preferment was supported by the knowledge that I
was a Canadian in a city in Canada, where the vast majority of the
population was alien; also I built on the hope that as one of my life’s
best friends had formerly held high administrative office in the
country, but was then in South Africa fighting, I might meet with
particular consideration from the authorities. I found, however, that
the dispenser of Government patronage in Dawson was the open enemy of my
friend. So this source of interest failed.
“A friend of a relative spoke in my behalf to the all-powerful head of
the political machine, and I was advised to apply. I did so. ‘How do you
vote?’ he asked. I told him I had never voted in my life, but, as he of
course knew, my people voted Tory. ‘Well,’ he replied, ‘I won’t do
anything for you; we have to get back at you fellows, you know.’ This
represents the spirit of the Grit administration in Dawson. Those who
ruled, who pulled the wires would, and did assist, and grant favours to
Yankees in preference to political opponents among their own people. And
yet the Grits claim they are not pro-Yankee!
“Somehow I made the acquaintance of the ‘old man,’ one of the most
remarkable characters in all the world. He was very strong in religion
but weak on cleanliness; a slight, grizzled man with a stoop. He had a
cabin, I had none. I had some money, he had none. Our duty to each other
was obvious.
“There were eighteen hundred men starving in Dawson that winter, yet no
word was uttered about the unemployed. Anyway, everyway, we were putting
in the winter. We—the old man and I, we joined their ranks.
“The old man’s cabin was larger than usual and divided into two
compartments. It had been badly constructed and was in very bad repair.
The larger compartment had a window. This was our home; the other
compartment serving as wood-shed and lumber-room.
“The first task I set myself after I took my residence there was to tidy
up. A number of filthy old rags which I threw into the lumber-room
turned out to be the old man’s ‘clothes.’ He was mortally offended.
“The weather was intensely cold, and in our happy home a bucket of water
froze solid in a night. On waking in the morning we would find our
blankets glued together by our frozen breath. I spilt some water
accidentally on the floor in December, and the consequent sheet of ice
lasted until February. Our stove was small and of tin; it sat in a
corner. The fact that numerous holes in the chinking allowed the wind to
enter, together with our very limited supply of wood, and the smallness
of the stove, accounted for the coldness of the cabin. We had to haul
our own wood from three miles down river, and what we then obtained was
poor, as one day’s work would secure only three days’ supply.
“We used to arise at eleven and cook porridge. The old man would prepare
it, always of course, after his way. I never summoned up courage to cook
it my way. He would bring the water to a boil and then dump in enough
oatmeal to drink up the water. The meal was never boiled and came out
with the consistency of mortar. Nor was any salt added; the old man did
not believe salt was good for the system. He said if the meal were
boiled it would become sticky. This disgusting mess was invariably our
breakfast. If our dishes were washed, even over long periods, it was I
who did it. Of course, there was really no danger in leaving the dishes
dirty, for they froze immediately and ill effects were thereby
prevented.
“After breakfast we went down town; the old man generally to the Free
Library, and I to the gambling saloons, or the shop of a merchant I
knew, and then to the library. At six we would come home, cook and eat
the heavy meal of the day. It consisted generally of bacon and beans,
the bacon of questionable quality. Then we would travel into town again,
returning to our cabin at midnight for supper and bed. Supper generally
was a repetition of breakfast. Once indeed, I suggested making some
slap-jacks and was allowed to carry the idea into effect. We both ate
and the old man was laid up next day. Towards evening he managed to
disgorge the mass and having a scientific mind, he enquired into it. He
found the dough completely undigested. This has always been a wonder to
me for I had no trouble with my meal and have always had a weak
digestion, whereas the old man had the digestion of an ostrich.
“I don’t know what a student of hygiene would say to our diet and mode
of life, but I can say my powers of digestion were never better. And our
general mode of life was out of the ordinary. We never took our clothes
off in going to bed. I must confess, however, that I sometimes took a
bath and changed my underclothing. When I announced my intention of
spending a dollar on a bath, the old man would sadly shake his head. Not
that he objected to what I did with my money, but rather that he looked
upon that expenditure as an insane waste.
“On Christmas day I did not seek out the old man. His philosophy was not
satisfied with Christmas—although he was a great churchman.
“I enjoyed the luxury of a dinner, a special turkey dinner, costing me a
dollar and a half. I entered the Northern Annex, being the restaurant
connected with one of the leading gambling saloons of the city, sat
down, and a plate of soup was slammed in front of me. I let it be and
gazed about me. I was the only one rejoicing in a table to myself. About
me were ranged human hulks and derelicts, most of them in pea-jackets,
some with fur collars turned above their ears.
“As I sat musing, a man sat down at my side. His features were good,
that is, they were regular. They might have been handsome had their
lines been a little stronger, as it was they lacked colour. I tendered a
few commonplace civilities and had them returned. I remarked on the
weather; so did he. I said ‘I have been reviewing all the Christmases I
have memory of’. ‘We all do it, a distressing process.’ ‘Think of the
great range of Christendom,’ I said. ‘Is it not well to think that you
and I are the exceptions? What joy has England had to-day and
Anglo-Saxon America; a joy that would be enhanced did the partakers but
view us as we sit and so by contrast establish a fitting measure of
their own good fortune.’ This was of course off at a tangent, but I
wished to draw him out.
“‘I have had my mind occupied with my own Christmases my mind travelling
over time rather than geography,’ he said.
“‘It is weird, is it not; from the nuts and candies in the stocking hung
for Santa Claus and devoured ere the mornings light had well broken, to
the well-laid table and the maiden kissed beneath the mistletoe at later
hours in later years?’ I’m afraid my advances were hardly tactful and my
conversation was rather stilted; but if these were so I was evidently
forgiven, for my companion replied:
“‘With me but two Christmases outstand, that of 1907, and the following
Christmas. Widely different as they may be I do not know which will live
the longer in my memory.’
“The expression of his face told me he was suffering, and I essayed no
further remark. Expectantly I waited. ‘Christmas 1908, I spent at Wind
City,’ he said. The very name told of horror, Wind City being the place
where a number of adventurers had wintered two years before. It is a
name at which the strong men who know shudder.
“‘I spent the day digging a grave for the best Pal a man ever had. The
tools I used I bought in England, fondly picturing the wealth they would
win me.’
“He knew the simple facts would convey to me the story of the grave that
covers the body of the one and the heart of the other. As we ate the
food that had been served us, I watched my companion’s face and while no
twitching disturbed its calm I knew, something told me, the desire to
unburden his mind was strong in him.
“He told me of that last Christmas day at home; of old mater who had
caught the spirit and shared his optimism. To them the Klondike was—as
to all of us—the Promised Land. And there was the girl steady and
trusting; the kind that will go through fire and water for her man. She
was penniless. You know the old story. ‘Behold the sequel!’ he said of a
sudden.” As he spoke Mr. Bang’s face was full of sympathy.
“So ended our dinner. Such too often is life.
“I frequently met Tom Dahlmun afterwards and we became friendly. One day
I learned of work at Gold Run Creek, forty-five miles from Dawson, and
engaged employment for two.
“Tom and I made an appointment to set out on foot for the scene of our
labours. He did not turn up on time; I waited, then went on alone. The
next thing I heard he was dead. He had gone to work on Hold Hill and had
died of spinal meningitis; but I guess his malady was sheer want. Many a
good man has starved. These are hardly thoughts for Christmas.”
We all remained silent.
“This little story of poor Tom has no more moral than that. My only
justification for telling it is that when I’m particularly happy at
Christmas, it always comes to mind there are so many good fellows just
like Tom.”
“It was a strange spirit,” went on Mr. Bang, “that animated Dawson’s
legion, an unreasonable, unwise spirit; yet not without beauty. Many of
the starving host could have had credit from the merchants, yet they
refrained from asking it. Personal pride restrained them. They were good
business risks and they knew it. With the return of summer, gold would
come from the creeks and wages would be high; yet these rough diamonds
of fellows would not run the risk lest fortune’s hazardous there, should
intervene and prevent their settling.”
And that was the end of Mr. Bang’s narrative, which made me think.