Chapter Chapter 11 · BOOK II CHAPTER I

"Say! you're looking mighty blue. Cheer up, darn you! What's the

matter?" said the Prodigal affectionately.

And indeed there was matter enough, for had I not just received letters

from home, one from Garry and one from Mother? Garry's was gravely

censorious, almost remonstrant. Mother, he said, was poorly, and greatly

put out over my escapade. He pointed out that I was in a fair way of

being a rolling stone, and hoped that I would at once give up my mad

notion of the South Seas and soberly proceed to the Northwest.

Mother's letter was reproachful, in parts almost distressful. She was

failing, she said, and she begged me to be a good son, give up my

wanderings and join my cousin at once. Also she enclosed post-office

orders for forty pounds. Her letter, written in a fine faltering hand

and so full of gentle affection, brought the tears to my eyes; so that

it was very bleakly I leaned against the ship's rail and watched the

bustle of departure. Poor Mother! Dear old Garry! With what tender

longing I thought of those two in far-away Glengyle, the Scotch mist

silvering the heather and the wind blowing caller from the sea. Oh, for

the clean, keen breath of it! Yet alas, every day was the memory

fading, and every day was I fitting more snugly into the new life.

"I've just heard from the folks," I said, "and I feel like going back on

you."

"Oh, beat it," he cried; "you can't renig now. You've got to see the

thing through. Mothers are all like that when you cut loose from their

apron-strings. Ma's scared stiff about me, thinks the devil's got an

option on my future sure. They get wised up pretty soon. What you want

to do is to get busy and make yourself acquainted. Here I've been

snooping round for the last two hours, and got a line on nearly every

one on board. Say! Of all the locoed outfits this here aggregation has

got everything else skinned to a hard-boiled finish. Most of them are

indoor men, ink-slingers and calico snippers; haven't done a day's hard

work in their lives, and don't know a pick from a mattock. They've got a

notion they've just got to get up there and pick big nuggets out of the

water like cherries out of a cocktail. It's the limit."

"Tell me about them," I said.

"Well, see that young fellow standing near us?"

I looked. He was slim, with gentle, refined features and an unnaturally

fresh complexion.

"That fellow was a pen-pusher in a mazuma emporium--I mean a bank clerk.

Pinklove's his name. He wanted to get hitched to some girl, but the

directors wouldn't stand for it. Now he's chucked his job and staked his

savings on this trip. There's his girl in the crowd."

Bedded in that mosaic of human faces I saw one that was all sweetness,

yet shamelessly tear-stained.

"Lucky beggar," I said, "to have some one who cares so much about his

going."

"Unlucky, you mean, lad. You don't want to have any strings on you when

you play this game."

He pointed to a long-haired young man in a flowing-end tie.

"See that pale-faced, artistic-looking guy alongside him. That's his

partner. Ineffectual, moony sort of a mut. He's a wood-carver; they call

him Globstock; told me his knowledge of wood-carving would come in handy

when we came to make boats at Lake Bennett. Then there's a third. See

that little fellow shooting off his face?"

I saw a weazened, narrow-chested mannikin, with an aggressive certainty

of feature.

"He's a professor, plumb-full of book dope on the Yukon. He's Mister

Wise Mike. He knows it all. Hear his monologue on 'How It Should Be

Done.' He's going to live on deck to inure himself to the rigours of the

Arctic climate. Works with a pair of spring dumb-bells to get up his

muscle so's he can shovel out the nuggets."

Our eyes roved round from group to group, picking out characteristic

figures.

"See that big bleached-blond Englishman? Came over with me on the

Pullman from New York. 'Awfully bored, don't you know.' When we got to

'Frisco, he says to me: 'Thank God, old chappie, the worst part of the

journey's over.' Then there's Romulus and Remus, the twins, strapping

young fellows. Only way I know them apart is one laces his boots tight,

the other slack. They think the world of each other."

He swung around to where Salvation Jim was talking to two men.

"There's a pair of winners. I put my money on them. Nothing on earth can

stop those fellows, native-born Americans, all grit and get-up. See that

tall one smoking a cigar and looking at the women? He's an athlete.

Name's Mervin; all whipcord and whalebone; springy as a bent bow. He's a

type of the Swift. He's bound to get there. See the other. Hewson's his

name; solid as a tower; muscled like a bear; built from the ground up.

He represents the Strong. Look at the grim, determined face of him. You

can't down a man like that."

He indicated another group.

"Now there's three birds of prey. Bullhammer, Marks and Mosher. The big,

pig-eyed heavy-jowled one is Bullhammer. He's in the saloon business.

The middle-sized one in the plug hat is Marks. See his oily, yellow face

dotted with pimples. He's a phoney piece of work; calls himself a mining

broker. The third's Jake Mosher. He's an out-and-out gambler, a

sure-thing man, once was a parson."

I looked again. Mosher had just taken off his hat. His high-domed head

was of monumental baldness, his eyes close-set and crafty, his nose

negligible. The rest of his face was mostly beard. It grew black as the

Pit to near the bulge of his stomach, and seemed to have drained his

scalp in its rank luxuriance. Across the deck came the rich, oily tones

of his voice.

"A bad-looking bunch," I said.

"Yes, there's heaps like them on board. There's a crowd of dance-hall

girls going up, and the usual following of parasites. Look at that

Halfbreed. There's a man for the country now, part Scotch, part Indian;

the quietest man on the boat; light, but tough as wire nails."

I saw a lean, bright-eyed brown man with flat features, smoking a

cigarette.

"Say! Just get next to those two Jews, Mike and Rebecca Winklestein.

They're going to open up a sporty restaurant."

The man was a small bandy-legged creature, with eyes that squinted, a

complexion like ham fat and waxed moustaches. But it was the woman who

seized my attention. Never did I see such a strapping Amazon, six foot

if an inch, and massive in proportion. She was handsome too, in a

swarthy way, though near at hand her face was sensuous and bold. Yet she

had a suave, flattering manner and a coarse wit that captured the crowd.

Dangerous, unscrupulous and cruel, I thought; a man-woman, a shrew, a

termagant!

But I was growing weary of the crowd and longed to go below. I was no

longer interested, yet the voice of the Prodigal droned in my ear.

"There's an old man and his granddaughter, relatives of the

Winklesteins, I believe. I think the old fellow's got a screw loose.

Handsome old boy, though; looks like a Hebrew prophet out of a job.

Comes from Poland. Speaks Yiddish or some such jargon; Only English he

knows is 'Klondike, Klondike.' The girl looks heartbroken, poor little

beggar."

"Poor little beggar!" I heard the words indeed, but my mind was far

away. To the devil with Polish Jews and their granddaughters. I wished

the Prodigal would leave me to my own thoughts, thoughts of my Highland

home and my dear ones. But no! he persisted:

"You're not listening to what I'm saying. Look, why don't you!"

So, to please him, I turned full round and looked. An old man,

patriarchal in aspect, crouched on the deck. Erect by his side, with her

hand on his shoulder, stood a slim figure in black, the figure of a

girl. Indifferently my eyes travelled from her feet to her face. There

they rested. I drew a deep breath. I forgot everything else. Then for

the first time I saw--Berna.

I will not try to depict the girl. Pen descriptions are so futile. I

will only say that her face was very pale, and that she had large

pathetic grey eyes. For the rest, her cheeks were woefully pinched and

her lips drooped wistfully. 'Twas the face, I thought, of a virgin

martyr with a fear-haunted look hard to forget. All this I saw, but most

of all I saw those great, grey eyes gazing unseeingly over the crowd,

ever so sadly fixed on that far-away East of her dreams and memories.

"Poor little beggar!"

Then I cursed myself for a sentimental impressionist and I went below.

Stateroom forty-seven was mine. We three had been separated in the

shuffle, and I knew not who was to be my room-mate. Feeling very

downhearted, I stretched myself on the upper berth, and yielded to a

mood of penitential sadness. I heard the last gang-plank thrown off, the

great crowd cheer, the measured throb of the engines, yet still I

sounded the depths of reverie. There was a bustle outside and growing

darkness. Then, as I lay, there came voices to my door, guttural tones

blended with liquid ones; lastly a timid knock. Quickly I answered it.

"Is this room number forty-seven?" a soft voice asked.

Even ere she spoke I divined it was the Jewish girl of the grey eyes,

and now I saw her hair was like a fair cloud, and her face fragile as a

flower.

"Yes," I answered her.

She led forward the old man.

"This is my grandfather. The Steward told us this was his room."

"Oh, all right; he'd better take the lower berth."

"Thank you, indeed; he's an old man and not very strong."

Her voice was clear and sweet, and there was an infinite tenderness in

the tone.

"You must come in," I said. "I'll leave you with him for a while so

that you can make him comfortable."

"Thank you again," she responded gratefully.

So I withdrew, and when I returned she was gone; but the old man slept

peacefully.

It was late before I turned in. I went on deck for a time. We were

cleaving through blue-black night, and on our right I could dimly

discern the coast festooned by twinkling lights. Every one had gone

below, I thought, and the loneliness pleased me. I was very quiet,

thinking how good it all was, the balmy wind, the velvet vault of the

night frescoed with wistful stars, the freedom-song of the sea; how

restful, how sane, how loving!

Suddenly I heard a sound of sobbing, the merciless sobbing of a woman's

breast. Distinct above the hollow breathing of the sea it assailed me,

poignant and insistent. Wonderingly I looked around. Then, in a shadow

of the upper deck, I made out a slight girl-figure, crouching all alone.

It was Grey Eyes, crying fit to break her heart.

"Poor little beggar!" I muttered.