In a bank near the creek, which was about twenty yards wide and had a
fairly swift current, there was a rough door, which, being half open,
disclosed a dark cave within. One sees similar places in railway
cuttings and cliffs in Britain, where workmen keep their tools.
In this "dug-out" Meade had lived.
A few cut stumps, some wood chopped for fuel, and the ground bared
around this door, were the only indications of any person having ever
been about.
There was a quantity of timber growing around, but no really large
trees; all were of the fir tribe. The earth was, as usual, covered
with moss some feet in thickness, much of it pink and golden, and very
beautiful. From the lower branches of trees hung long streamers of
gray lichen; rotting logs, dead branches, and rock were cushioned in
brilliant mosses, green and orange, whilst creepers and bushes were
thickly matted everywhere. Yet, as we well knew, beneath this and for
many feet below it the ground was frozen, in spite of the sun's great
heat, which could not penetrate that mass of vegetation.
There we were, then, entirely alone, so far as we could tell, many
miles from any one but Jim and his klootchman. Yet we thought it
better, in spite of this belief, not to put up our white tent: some
wandering prospector might come our way, and it was better not to
attract attention, therefore we decided to enlarge this dug-out and
dwell in it.
Fancy a hole scooped out of the bank about ten feet square, very little
higher than a man, with a hole in one corner of the roof to allow the
smoke from the fire to escape: that was all, and that was to be our
home--for three months, we said.
How little we knew what was before us!
The front of this luxurious habitation was built up with logs, the
chinks between stuffed with moss; the door was of rough split slabs; it
had no hinges--to open and close it one had to lift it bodily. There
were a few notches in the top which admitted all the light we had when
it was shut.
The remains of Meade's last year's bedding (fir twigs), a few old tins,
and bits of rubbish, strewed the floor. It was just a den, and a very
dismal one at that,--far worse than the meanest hopper's crib in Kent.
First we lit a big fire inside, and when the frost was driven out we
set to with pick and shovel and very quickly enlarged it by about five
feet, after which we strewed a thick layer of fresh pine brush over the
floor, spread our bedding, and were at home!
"It'll do," said Meade; "we can exist here till we've got all the gold
we want--that will not take long, you'll see. Then for England, home,
and beauty, eh?"
I said, "All right, it's good enough for me."
We made a pot of tea, boiled part of a salmon we had taken just before
we landed--the creek appeared to be full of them--then we rolled
ourselves in our blankets, tired out, and I soon slept in spite of dirt
and heat.
The sun was high when I was awakened by my companion, who called me
excitedly. He held a tin pannikin in his hand. "See," he exclaimed;
"it was a shame to rouse you, but I could not help it. I went down to
the bar and got a pan of dirt, and this is what I have washed out of
it!" and he held the tin close to my face, and there was a handful of
gold in it, dust and small nuggets--bright, shining, yellow nuggets,
looking like pieces of shelled walnuts which had been gilded!
"Now, Bertie, what d'ye say?" he went on, as I stared at the gold, took
some up and let it run through my fingers; "are you sorry you have
come? Isn't all we have gone through a mere nothing? isn't it all
forgotten?--and there's heaps and heaps of it!"
I was on my feet now. I could not say I was amazed, for I had heard so
much about it from my friend, and had learned to trust his words so
implicitly; but I was pleased, I was delighted, in fact, to find that
he had not been mistaken, and that we had not come up to this dismal
place and passed through all our hardships in vain. Indeed it was
grand, and I said so.
We hardly had patience to wait for the kettle to boil. We swallowed
some breakfast in a hurry, then with shovel and tin dish we each went
at it, and we worked away till we judged that it was noon, out on a
gravelly point that jutted into the stream close to the shanty.
As we moved this gravel we could see the gold; no wonder Meade had
brought out what he did--it was easy to do it. I picked out several
handfuls myself that morning, and so did he, and this, with what we
washed out, weighed over fifty ounces!
We had thus proved that all was right. I had myself seen it, handled
it, washed it, picked it out. Naturally we were both highly elated.
It was hard to drag myself away from all this, but I had to. I took a
blanket and a little grub, got into the canoe, and paddled off down the
creek. I was returning to Jim and his wife to bring up the rest of our
property. Jim was to return with me; Fan was to remain there until her
husband came down with the canoe which we had given them, then they
were to get back to the headquarters of their band.
Meade had said farewell to them already, now I had to do so. It was
not a pleasant business, for we had both become really attached to
these two Indians, and I am sure that the liking was mutual. We had
found them perfectly trustworthy and reliable, and very different in
their habits and, so far as we could judge, in their ideas, to what we
had always supposed were characteristic of their race. We had treated
them in terms of equality with ourselves; we had shared alike of late,
and had learnt much that was useful and interesting from them, and I
believe they had learnt some good from us. At any rate, Fan said to me
one day, "S'pose all white folk same as you and Meade, there no be so
plenty bad Injun"; which was satisfactory.
Paddling energetically, the current with me, I reached their camp the
following evening, so fatigued that I slept nearly twelve hours on end!
It was noon next day before Jim and I had the canoe loaded and were
able to start up stream again.
My leave-taking with Fan was really quite sad: I must admit that I
never supposed I could have felt it so. As for the poor girl, she
showed no apathy: she shed many tears, and made me certain that if I
should ever go to that country again I would find a welcome from Fan,
her husband, and her entire nation. True, they had been well treated,
and, I suppose for them, well paid. They had a handsome canoe given to
them, and many other little things which they valued; but, for all
that, I believe their grief at parting from us was quite genuine.
Fan shouted to me as I paddled up stream with her man, "Plenty come
again soon; my will be sick by'me-by, all er time, for love of you!"
I did not take Jim right up to our shanty. About a mile below it,
where a small stream trickled down a bank, we landed the cargo. I had
to make him suppose that it was up there we intended to remain, as we
did not wish him to know exactly where we were, and what we were doing.
With many a hearty hand-clasp, with many a good wish on both sides, I
parted with that Indian. I have never seen him since, nor have I heard
of him or his good wife, but the day may come when I shall do so. I
believe their association with us did them good, and I know that always
in the future, when men speak evil of Indians, I shall adhere to my
opinion that there are some good and true ones.
I found that Meade had increased our lot of gold during my absence to
over one hundred ounces!
After packing in our stores, amongst which were a few tools and a
trifle of ironmongery, with which we did a little to our domicile, and
having fed and slept, which we considered all but waste of time, we
went at gold getting.
It was most absorbing, and, in a sense, glorious work. For over a week
we worked with pans and fingers only. A ridge of rock ran across the
creek, against which the gravel had been washed by the stream; this
formed a bar, and here we were getting the gold, and down on this rock
itself, the bed rock, was where we found it richest. By the week-end
we had hidden away what was worth one thousand pounds each--some fifty
pounds weight of gold!
At the finish of the next we had more than doubled the quantity, and we
were reckoning that if we could keep going like that till the middle of
September, we should be able to take out ten thousand pounds
apiece--five hundred pounds weight of it! We could think of nothing to
prevent it.
We had by working, often to our waists, in ice-cold water, got out all
the gravel we could from the river; we then began to trace the run of
golden dirt in along the rock, which led into the bank a few yards only
from our den. We found that it continued quite rich, and so far as we
could tell this vein or lead might continue into the hill to an
indefinite distance. We removed the moss and vegetation, then raised a
huge fire over the spot where we wished to dig; in a few hours the
ground was thawed a foot or two; we dug that out, and lit another fire,
and thawed a little more. We kept at it thus almost day and night. We
were well paid for it, no doubt, so far as getting gold went.
In three weeks we had excavated into the bank ten feet and more,
following the streak on bed rock, and found it always rich. We made a
dump, or heap of wash dirt, at the entrance. Our piles were in it, we
had good reason to feel sure; besides, we had, as we considered,
equally rich ground ahead of us.
One thing we knew, that if we should be discovered we could each claim
five hundred feet along the creek; indeed, we thought twice that, as
discoverers, so that our claim on the Klondyke might be two thousand
feet in length. Therefore we need not have been so much afraid of
being found. I used to say so to Meade, who invariably replied that we
were better as we were, and were bound to keep our secret as long as
possible.
It was now the middle of August--we had attempted to continue a sort of
diary, but we had quite lost count by this time of dates and days. For
weeks there had been no darkness, there was only what the Shetlanders
call "the dim," and which we could then perceive was becoming more
pronounced. We ate and slept when we felt we must; the rest of the
time we worked without ceasing--we took no relaxation whatever.
Our creek was now alive with salmon; we could, with a long-handled
shovel, scoop one out whenever we liked. They were so closely packed
that they crowded each other out. In places many had been forced on to
the land, where they lay rotting by the hundred: crows and ravens,
jays, magpies, and hawks were numerous, feeding on dead fish, and
several times we noticed bears dragging the salmon out and gorging
themselves with them--not one bear only, often we saw several at once
catching and eating them, or lying, surfeited with food, on sunny banks
asleep.
We could easily have killed all we wished of them, but we did not dream
of doing so; we had stores in plenty, as much salmon as we chose--why
should we bother about bear meat?
About this time Meade first complained of being out of sorts. He was a
powerful man, and had, till lately, looked the picture of health, but
now clearly a change had come over him. He was pale, always tired, and
did not eat properly. Was it to be wondered at? Such work, such
living, such worry with mosquitos would tell on any one.
I, too, felt that I was not the man I should be. Yet in spite of all,
we told each other we must stick to it for another six weeks, then we
could rest, which was foolishness. One night we both felt so bad that
we could neither work nor eat; it had become serious. Then we settled
to devote the next few days to making a sluice with the boards we had
brought, hoping that change of work, which, it is said, is as good as
play, would prove so in our case: it did.
We constructed three-sided boxes, the depth and width of our boards,
and about six feet long, an inch or two wider at one end than the
other; across the inside, along the bottom, we put bars or riffles a
foot apart. We made six of these boxes, then went up stream, where a
little obstruction, a sort of dam, raised the water; there we cut a
groove, or ditch, and led a powerful stream into the boxes, which we
had set up by our dump, one behind the other on a slant, the narrow
ends fitting into the wider, so as to form a trough some thirty feet
long. This was our sluice.
Into the upper boxes we threw the wash dirt, allowing the water to rush
over it. One of us was continually throwing in the dirt, the other
stirred it about and flung out the large stones and coarse gravel with
a long-handled shovel.
[Illustration: OUR DUG-OUT, OUR TUNNEL, AND OUR SLUICE.]
Thus, by degrees, against the riffles was collected fine sand and gold,
which once a day we cleared away thoroughly, turning the run of water
on one side whilst we did it. This washed stuff we then panned off in
the usual way, and a very delightful operation this was, for the amount
of gold we got and stored away daily was immense.
By this process we were able to wash a very much larger amount of stuff
than before, and we soon had our dump cleared away, and found we had,
in old meat tins and bags, not less than three hundred pounds weight of
gold!
Feeling much better after this, we stupidly went on working as hard as
ever, and in a few days were queer again. Then we realised that this
would not do at all, and we determined to take things much easier. We
had done splendidly; we could go home with a large sum each, and we
believed that we could at Dawson City register, or in some way secure,
our claim, and could return to it next season. Or, as we said, we
could surely find capitalists in Canada or England to pay us well for
such a splendid property. At any rate, we knew we should do well to
cease this extraordinary labour, yet every day add something to our
pile.
Having by this time driven in a tunnel quite twenty feet, and being at
least forty from the surface, we were not troubled with frozen ground,
and could work more easily, anyway. It was quite dark in there: we
burnt candles, of which we had brought with us a quantity.
We left off work in reasonable time now, we smoked and read and talked
and sketched of an evening, and planned what we should do about getting
home, and what big things we would do when we had arrived there.
During all this time we had experienced wonderfully good weather. I
have no recollection of any rain; we had strong winds and squalls
often,--we rather liked them, for they lessened the insect pests, but
by the end of August mosquitos had much diminished in numbers.
Although we had nightly frosts, some pretty severe, when the sun was
high they came in clouds, and sometimes we thought they were more
bloodthirsty than ever. And thus, as the time went by, we began to
realise that the day was drawing near when we must depart.
We spent a little time now with our guns, killing several deer close to
our den. We often saw bears; we left them alone, having plenty of
venison.
We had not seen a human being, or the sign of one, since we had been up
there. But one morning early, for there was real day and night
now--the sun rose about four--I was awakened by low growls from Patch,
who happened to be in with us that night. I motioned the dog to be
silent, and, listening, I heard footsteps outside. Pit-a-pat they
went; then I heard a bucket being moved.
I reached over and shook my companion gently; when he awoke I
whispered, "There's some one about at last."
Meade roused up, listened, and, jumping from his blankets, stepped to
our spy-hole. Then, turning to me, he held his finger up for silence,
and with a smile motioned me to come and look. I did so; it was a huge
bear, the largest I had ever seen, snuffing about, examining things,
and it was not ten yards away!
I asked by signs if I should shoot it--for answer Meade handed me my
rifle, and I let fly at the beast.
I was altogether too careless, too sure that I should put the ball just
where I wanted to. At any rate, I only grazed its skull, and did not
even stun it--only aroused its fury, for it turned with a roar of
anger, and came at our frail door with a bound.
I jumped back as the door fell inwards, and the huge creature stood for
a moment glaring at us. Patch flew at him, barking vociferously.
My other barrel was a smooth-bore, and only held shot; but Meade was
ready with his rifle. He fired, hit the bear square between the eyes,
and the beast fell prone upon the door. He lifted up his head a time
or two, opened his savage mouth, and growled; but he was practically
dead and harmless, whilst our good dog mounted on his carcase, howled
with excitement, waved his grand tail, proud of victory, probably
thinking that he himself had done it.
"By George!" exclaimed Meade, "a splendid fellow, eh? It must be a St
Elias grizzly!"
Its fur was brown, long and thick. We took the skin off and stretched
it around the butt of a tree, fastening Patch near to keep strange
beasts away. As for the meat, we found it excellent for a change. We
hoisted a lot of it up into adjoining trees. It was very fat.
The scent of it attracted many animals about us, wolves and wolverines,
foxes and lynxes. Patch kept them from doing harm.
The woods were seldom altogether silent at night; one often heard the
howls and barks of many creatures. Foxes were very numerous. There
were many silver grey and black ones. We shot them whenever we had the
chance: we skinned and stretched them properly, as we had learnt to do
in Ontario.
I don't believe that two fellows were ever better fitted to be
companions, under such circumstances, than Meade and I were. He was a
very cheerful man, always looking at the bright side of things, full of
resources, an excellent bushman.
He told me much about his English home, spoke often of his mother, for
whom he had the greatest love and veneration. His father had been dead
for years. Money was not too abundant with his mother and his two
sisters; he was often saying what a blessing the gold that he had got
would be to them.
I could tell, too, that there was one person in England around whom all
his warmest feelings were centred. He did not say very much to me
about her, for, as he knew from me that I was perfectly heart-whole, I
believe he thought that I could not sympathise with him, nor understand
his feelings. Meade was very well read, and his conversation was
always very pleasant. As for me, he was kind enough to say that he
could not have had a better "mate."
It was in the beginning of September, our health was not good, and the
season was hurrying towards winter, when we deemed it wise to begin to
carry out some plan for getting away. We had not acted wisely, I must
admit; that is, we should have arranged as well for getting out as for
getting in. How were we to take our camping gear, our grub, and our
gold down to our boat?
We should have brought up two canoes with us--one for Fan and Jim to
get away in, another for ourselves.
Meade saw this now, and was always blaming himself for the error,
saying that as he knew the lie of the land he should have known better.
These points he and I had discussed again and again, and had not really
settled what to do, when this time arrived.
Certainly we could not "pack" our stuff. There was no decent trail,
and even if there had been, we knew we were not robust enough to take a
dozen journeys to our boat and back, heavily laden, as we should have
to be. No! By some means we must float down to the Klondyke, to the
main stream, where our boat was cached.
And about the boat, too, we had some anxiety. Supposing it had been
found and carried off, where should we be?
Certainly we had acted most unwisely.
There was a bear track along the creek which it was possible to
traverse, and as the existence of our boat was of first importance, we
arranged to take a small pack each and go down to ascertain if all were
well.
I shall not easily forget that tramp. We were three days reaching the
mouth of our creek, but we found our boat safe. We rested there a day,
and then marched home again; and such a march that was too! The path
was quite narrow, and seldom along level ground--indeed it appeared
that the bears preferred to climb boulders, creep along logs, or tramp
through the softest sleughs. Bad as the trail was, however, it would
have been impossible to get through those woods at all if we had left
it.
We saw at least twenty bears on this journey, besides hearing many
scooting through the bush. They did not approve of other travellers
along their road. They showed no disposition to dispute with us
though. They blew and snorted, but fled.
We thus realised how utterly impossible it would be to even carry what
gold we had that way, to say nothing of other things we must have with
us. Hours were spent discussing these important questions.
When we reached our place we searched the adjacent forest for a cedar
or a pine tree big enough to make a dug-out canoe. We felt certain we
were axemen enough for that; but, alas! there were no large trees there.
So then, at last, we had to come down to the plan I had favoured from
the first. It was that we should build a raft. I knew that we could
construct one which we could navigate. The stream was not too rapid,
although crooked, much encumbered with boulders, logs, and snags. I
had traversed it in the canoe three times; with good luck I believed I
could take a raft down too.
We did not intend to take many of the stores we still had with us, for
it was our determination to return in the spring of '98. All tinned
things and many others would keep good in that climate if we protected
them from bears and other beasts.
The first idea was to stow them in our den, making all secure with
rocks and timber, but we found this would be too difficult and risky.
So we made a cache, as the Indians do to preserve their salmon--that
is, high up between two suitable trees near. We built a huge box or
safe of logs, large enough to hold all we proposed to leave behind.
The trees we chose were not large. Bears cannot climb small ones,
unless there are plenty of branches to hold by. We took care to remove
all such helps as we came down from our task, and so felt secure.
Next we turned seriously to building the raft.
Selecting trees for the purpose, we felled and rolled them to the
water, notched and pinned them together, fitted others across and
across again, carefully lashing all in such a way that we felt would be
safe. To do this we were working up to our waists in water often, and
it was icy cold.
I think it was on the third day we had been at this job when Meade took
really ill. I know we reckoned that we only had two or three hours
more work to complete it when he gave in.
There was only one heavy log to get into position. I said to him that
if he could give me a hand with that, I could do the rest alone. Then
we would pack up and be off, for I hoped and believed that the change
of scene and work, and the actually having started on the long journey
out and home, would soon set him to rights.
We were talking thus, and the poor fellow was doing all he could to aid
me. He was lifting one end of the log which was to complete the
structure; then, whilst I was finishing, he was to go inside, turn in,
and try if sleep would help him--when, putting out all his strength to
lift, his foot slipped upon a barked stick under water, and he came
down heavily, the log he had been lifting falling sharply across his
legs!
I shall never forget the look on his face as he sank back slowly in the
water, which rippled over him to his waist.
He turned deathly pale, then red; his eyes were dilated, his expression
was terrible. "Bertie, Bertie," he groaned, "it is all up with me, my
leg is broken!"
As for me, I was appalled; for a few moments I was dumb with fear. I
thought my friend would drown!
I suppose I simply stared at him with open mouth; I don't really know
what I did, or thought. There was my poor friend pinned to the bottom
of the creek by a heavy piece of timber, his head and shoulders only
out of water, his hands pressing against that awful log to keep it from
rolling farther on to him.
Thank God, though dazed, I was not idle long. I leapt ashore, seized a
handspike, got it under the end of the stick, and prised it up quite
clear of him. Then I called to him that he was free, and begged him to
move away.
But he could not. He repeated that his leg was broken, and that he was
jammed there; that if I could not help him he must there lie--there
die! He spoke in such a despondent manner, he looked so dreadful; his
teeth were chattering with the cold. It was awful.
I was all this time exerting my power to keep the log up, and off him.
I realised that I could not do that for long, and if I let go it would
go down on him and hurt him worse perhaps. It was a horrible fix to be
in. I suppose it lasted hardly twenty seconds, but it seemed to me an
hour.
What could I do? How could I, in the first place, get that log
entirely clear of him? That was the question. I looked round in
despair; would no clever thought come to me? I think in those few
seconds I lifted up my heart to God Almighty very earnestly.
Thanks be to Him, He did show me a way. The handspike, or lever, I had
was a pole of considerable length. I found that by moving to the end
farthest from the log I could with very little pressure keep it up.
There were branches and sticks about; with one hand I put enough of
them upon the end of the lever to keep it down, when I let go entirely,
and wading into the creek beside my friend, who had fainted--he was
insensible at any rate--I put out all my strength and pushed the log
clear.
As it fell it splashed the water over Meade and brought him to. He
looked at me despairing. "Come, come, dear friend!" I cried, "the log
is off you; make an effort, let us get you out of this!"
He tried hard, groaning with pain; he really swooned more than once as
he endeavoured to drag himself out, and somehow, I cannot remember how,
he did get out, and I got him clear and on to a level place on the
bank, and then I let him rest whilst I got him some whisky--for we had
brought a little with us, "in case of accident," we said, and here was
an accident indeed.
After a little while my chum revived. He said the agony in one leg was
intense. He was quite unable to help himself or to discuss the
situation.
First thing, I was sure, was to get him inside; then we must discover
what was really wrong. He declared he knew that his thigh was
fractured. The slightest movement made him scream with anguish. Yet
moved he must be--but how was I alone to do it? I am a big fellow. I
endeavoured to lift him bodily. I could not. His constant cry was,
"Let me lie--and die!"
Suddenly an idea occurred to me. We had just been reading about Swiss
mountaineering, and that to get wounded people or ladies unable to walk
over the ice and snow they use hides, or, failing them,
sacking--anything really which is strong enough.
Well, I remembered the bearskin we had--would that do?
I tore it from the tree, spread it out by Meade, the fur side up, then
with all the tenderness I could exert I contrived to get it under him:
he could help himself but little, and half the time he appeared to be
unconscious.
As for my thoughts, I cannot recall them really. If, as he said, his
thigh was broken, what could _I_ do for him? I had no knowledge at all
of surgery. I was almost despairing, and began to fear it would indeed
be that he would die!
Good old Patch seemed to realise that some great disaster had occurred.
The expression on his face was almost human. He sat perfectly still,
intently watching us.
To get Meade in, and lying on his far from comfortable bed, was the
first thing to do--of that I was quite sure. It was no easy task. I
did, however, manage by attaching a rope to the bearskin to haul him
along by degrees, and at last got him near the fire. Still on the
bearskin, I arranged him with rugs and blankets, as we had plenty.
Next thing was to examine his hurts. I cut off his boots and clothing.
I found one leg was much cut and bruised, but he could move it--it was
the other that was seriously damaged. I found that it was broken just
above the knee!
Naturally my first thought was that we must have a doctor. But how
could it be managed? Could I leave him for a forty-mile tramp to the
boat? Could I launch it alone? Could I navigate it alone to Dawson?
When I did get there, could I get a doctor to come out with me?
It would take at the very least ten days to go and come, and where
would my poor friend be then? He would die indeed without me. He
would freeze to death, even if I left food and water handy, for it
froze every night, and the earth itself was frozen always, summer and
winter, you must remember, and if the fire died out he could not
rekindle it.
No--it was impossible. I could not leave him.
We talked this over, at least I talked, and he agreed with me--that we
must sink or swim together, that we could not be parted. He was
awfully depressed.
I plied him with hot tea and whisky--that is all I could think of then,
and he became calmer after a little. But soon he became uneasy again.
"Bertie, dear friend," said he, with a mournful sigh, "I see clearly
nothing can be done. I must die here--that is plain."
"Not if I can help it," I declared, and I begged him to tell me what he
thought I could do for him; that as it was evident I could not leave
him, I must do something--if only to alleviate his pain.
He asked what I knew of surgery, if I had ever seen a leg set, if I
thought that I could do it. I was grieved at heart to have to tell him
that I was absolutely ignorant about all such matters.
He lay silently for a long time--I thought he slept. I made up the
fire, closed the door, lit the lamp, for it was evening, then I sat on
the ground beside him, very sorrowful--ay, far more than sorrowful--I
was despairing.
A broken leg--no surgeon--no appliances--a fearful journey before us
through an Arctic winter, for I knew that at the best many weeks,
perhaps months, must elapse before my friend could possibly start
homewards, and what could I do alone? I was utterly ignorant about
sickness and sick-nursing, and I knew nothing about cooking food
suitable for a sick man, even if we had the materials to cook.
There was a long, long silence, only the crackling of the fire in the
corner, the sough of the wind amongst the pines outside, or the weird
howl of a wolf prowling around our miserable home.
Patch sat upright by the fire, almost motionless. He scarcely shut an
eye; he appeared to be full of sad thoughts. Occasionally he turned
his head slowly and gazed first at Meade a while, and then at me, and
then, as if he too was quite despairing, he gazed long and sorrowfully
at the burning wood. Certainly that good dog knew that something
terrible had happened to his friends.