第 五十 章 · BOOK IV CHAPTER III

I wish it to be understood that I make no excuses for myself at this

particular stage of my chronicle. I am only conscious of a desire to

tell the truth. Many of the stronger-minded will no doubt condemn me;

many of those inclined to a rigid system of morality will be disgusted

with me; but, however it may be, I will write plainly and without

reserve.

When I reeled out of the Grubstake Saloon I was in a peculiar state of

exaltation. No longer was I conscious of the rasping cold, and it seemed

to me I could have couched me in the deep snow as cosily as in a bed of

down. Surpassingly brilliant were the lights. They seemed to convey to

me a portentous wink. They twinkled with jovial cheer. What a desirable

place the world was, after all!

With an ebullient sense of eloquence, of extravagant oratory, I longed

for a sympathetic ear. An altruistic emotion pervaded me. Who would

suspect, thought I, as I walked a little too circumspectly amid the

throng, that my heart was aglow, that I was tensing my muscles in the

pride of their fitness, that my brain was a bewildering kaleidoscope of

thoughts and images?

Gramophones were braying in every conceivable key. Brazen women were

leering at me. Potbellied men regarded me furtively. Alluringly the

gambling-dens and dancing-dives invited me. The town was a giant spider

drawing in its prey, and I was the prey, it seemed. Others there were in

plenty, men with the eager, wistful eyes; but who was there so eager and

wistful as I? And I didn't care any more. Strike up the music! On with

the dance! Only one life have we to live. Ah! there was the Tivoli.

To the right as I entered was a palatial bar set off with burnished

brass, bevelled mirrors and glittering, vari-coloured pyramids of costly

liqueurs. Up to the bar men were bellying, and the bartenders in white

jackets were mixing drinks with masterly dexterity. It was a motley

crowd. There were men in broadcloth and fine linen, men in blue shirts

and mud-stiffened overalls, grey-bearded elders and beardless boys. It

was a noisy crowd, laughing, brawling, shouting, singing. Here was the

foam of life, with never a hint of the muddy sediment underneath.

To the left I had a view of the gambling-room, a glimpse of green

tables, of spinning balls, of cool men, with shades over their eyes,

impassively dealing. There were huge wheels of fortune, keno tables,

crap outfits, faro layouts, and, above all, the dainty, fascinating

roulette. Everything was in full swing. Miners with flushed faces and a

wild excitement in their eyes were plunging recklessly; others, calm,

alert, anxious, were playing cautiously. Here and there were the fevered

faces of women. Gold coin was stacked on the tables, while a man with a

pair of scales was weighing dust from the tendered pokes.

In front of me was a double swing-door painted in white and gold, and,

pushing through this, for the first time I found myself in a Dawson

dance-hall.

I remember being struck by the gorgeousness of it, its glitter and its

glow. Who would have expected, up in this bleak-visaged North, to find

such a fairyland of a place? It was painted in white and gold, and set

off by clusters of bunched lights. There was much elaborate scroll-work

and ornate decoration. Down each side, raised about ten feet from the

floor, and supported on gilt pillars, were little private boxes hung

with curtains of heliotrope silk. At the further end of the hall was a

stage, and here a vaudeville performance was going on.

I sat down on a seat at the very back of the audience. Before me were

row after row of heads, mostly rough, rugged and unwashed. Their faces

were eager, rapt as those of children. They were enjoying, with the deep

satisfaction of men who for many a weary month had been breathing the

free, unbranded air of the Wild. The sensuous odour of patchouli was

strangely pleasant to them; the sight of a woman was thrillingly sweet;

the sound of a song was ravishing. Looking at many of those toil-grooved

faces one could see that there was no harm in their hearts. They were

honest, uncouth, simple; they were just like children, the children of

the Wild.

A woman of generous physique was singing in a shrill, nasal voice a

pathetic ballad. She sang without expression, bringing her hands with

monotonous gestures alternately to her breast. Her squat, matronly

figure, beef from the heels up, looked singularly absurd in her short

skirt. Her face was excessively over-painted, her mouth good-naturedly

large, and her eyes out of their slit-like lids leered at the audience.

"Ain't she great?" said a tall bean-pole of a man on my right, as she

finished off with a round of applause. "There's some class to her work."

He looked at me in a confidential way, and his pale-blue eyes were full

of rapturous appreciation. Then he did something that surprised me. He

tugged open his poke and, dipping into it, he produced a big nugget.

Twisting this in a scrap of paper, he rose up, long, lean and awkward,

and with careful aim he threw it on the stage.

"Here ye are, Lulu," he piped in his shrill voice. The woman, turning in

her exit, picked up the offering, gave her admirer a wide, gold-toothed

smile, and threw him an emphatic kiss. As the man sat down I could see

his mouth twisting with excitement, and his watery blue eyes snapped

with pleasure.

"By heck," he said, "she's great, ain't she? Many's the bottle of wine

I've opened for that there girl. Guess she'll be glad when she hears old

Henry's in town again. Henry's my name, Hard-pan Henry they call me, an'

I've got a claim on Hunker. Many's the wallopin' poke have I toted into

town an' blowed in on that there girl. An' I just guess this one'll go

the same gait. Well, says I, what's the odds? I'm havin' a good time

for my money. When it's gone there's lots more in the ground. It ain't

got no legs. It can't run away."

He chuckled and hefted his poke in a horny hand. There was a flutter of

the heliotrope curtains, and the face of Lulu, peeping over the plush

edge of a box, smiled bewitchingly upon him. With another delighted

chuckle the old man went to join her.

"Darned old fool," said a young man on my left. He looked as if his

veins were chuckful of health; his skin was as clear as a girl's, his

eye honest and fearless. He was dressed in mackinaw, and wore a fur cap

with drooping ear-flaps.

"He's the greatest mark in the country," the Youth went on. "He's got no

more brains than God gave geese. All the girls are on to him. Before he

can turn round that old bat up there will have him trimmed to a finish.

He'll be doing flip-flaps, and singing ''Way Down on the Suwanee River'

standing on his head. Then the girl will pry him loose from his poke,

and to-morrow he'll start off up the creek, teetering and swearing he's

had a dooce of a good time. He's the easiest thing on earth."

The Youth paused to look on a new singer. She was a soubrette, trim,

dainty and confident. She wore a blond wig, and her eyes in their pits

of black were alluringly bright. Paint was lavished on her face in

violent dabs of rose and white, and the inevitable gold teeth gleamed in

her smile. She wore a black dress trimmed with sequins, stockings of

black, a black velvet band around her slim neck. She was greeted with

much applause, and she began to sing in a fairly sweet voice.

"That's Nellie Lestrange," said the Youth. "She's a great

rustler--Touch-the-button-Nell, they call her. They say that when she

gets a jay into a box it's all day with him. She's such a nifty

wine-winner the end of her thumb's calloused pressing the button for

fresh bottles."

Touch-the-button-Nell was singing a comic ditty of a convivial order.

She put into it much vivacity, appealing to the audience to join in the

chorus with a pleading, "Now all together, boys." She had tripping steps

and dainty kicks that went well with the melody. When she went off half

a dozen men rose in their places, and aimed nuggets at her. She captured

them, then, with a final saucy flounce of her skirt, made her smiling

exit.

"By Gosh!" said the Youth, "I wonder these fellows haven't got more

savvy. You wouldn't catch _me_ chucking away an ounce on one of those

fairies. No, sir! Nothing doing! I've got a five-thousand-dollar poke in

the bank, and to-morrow I'll be on my way outside with a draft for every

cent of it. A certain little farm 'way back in Vermont looks pretty good

to me, and a little girl that don't know the use of face powder, bless

her. She's waiting for me."

The excitement of the liquor had died away in me, and what with the heat

and smoke of the place, I was becoming very drowsy. I was almost dozing

off to sleep when some one touched me on the arm. It was a negro waiter

I had seen dodging in and out of the boxes, and known as the Black

Prince.

"Dey's a lady up'n de box wants to speak with yuh, sah," he said

politely.

"Who is it?" I asked in surprise.

"Miss Labelle, sah, Miss Birdie Labelle."

I started. Who in the Klondike had not heard of Birdie Labelle, the

eldest of the three sisters, who married Stillwater Willie? A thought

flashed through me that she could tell me something of Berna.

"All right," I said; "I'll come."

I followed him upstairs, and in a moment I was ushered into the presence

of the famous soubrette.

"Hullo, kid!" she exclaimed, "sit down. I saw you in the audience and

kind-a took a notion to your face. How d'ye do?"

She extended a heavily bejewelled hand. She was plump, pleasant-looking,

with a piquant smile and flaxen hair. I ordered the waiter to bring her

a bottle of wine.

"I've heard a lot about you," I said tentatively.

"Yes, I guess so," she answered. "Most folks have up here. It's a sort

of reflected glory. I guess if it hadn't been for Bill I'd never have

got into the limelight at all."

She sipped her champagne thoughtfully.

"I came in here in '97, and it was then I met Bill. He was there with

the coin all right. We got hitched up pretty quick, but he was such a

mut I soon got sick of him. Then I got skating round with another guy.

Well, an egg famine came along. There was only nine hundred samples of

hen fruit in town, and one store had a corner on them. I went down to

buy some. Lord! how I wanted them eggs. I kept thinking how I'd have

them done, shipwrecked, two on a raft or sunny side up, when who should

come along but Bill. He sees what I want, and quick as a flash what does

he do but buy up the whole bunch at a dollar apiece! 'Now,' says he to

me, 'if you want eggs for breakfast just come home where you belong.'

"Well, say, I was just dying for them eggs, so I comes to my milk like a

lady. I goes home with Bill."

She shook her head sadly, and once more I filled up her glass.

She prattled on with many a gracious smile, and I ordered another bottle

of wine. In the next box I could hear the squeaky laugh of Hard-pan

Henry and the teasing tones of his inamorata. The visits of the Black

Prince to this box with fresh bottles had been fast and furious, and at

last I heard the woman cry in a querulous voice: "Say, that black man

coming in so often gives me a pain. Why don't you order a case?"

Then the man broke in with his senile laugh:

"All right, Lulu, whatever you say goes. Say, Prince, tote along a case,

will you?"

Surely, thought I, there's no fool like an old fool.

A little girl was singing, a little, winsome girl with a sweet childish

voice and an innocent face. How terribly out of place she looked in that

palace of sin. She sang a simple, old-world song full of homely pathos

and gentle feeling. As she sang she looked down on those furrowed faces,

and I saw that many eyes were dimmed with tears. The rough men listened

in rapt silence as the childish treble rang out:

"Darling, I am growing old;

Silver threads among the gold

Shine upon my brow to-day;

Life is fading fast away."

Then from behind the scenes a pure alto joined in and the two voices,

blending in exquisite harmony, went on:

"But, my darling, you will be, will be,

Always young and fair to me.

Yes, my darling, you will be

Always young and fair to me."

As the last echo died away the audience rose as one man, and a shower of

nuggets pelted on the stage. Here was something that touched their

hearts, stirred in them strange memories of tenderness, brought before

them half-forgotten scenes of fireside happiness.

"It's a shame to let that kid work in the halls," said Miss Labelle.

There were tears in her eyes, too, and she hurriedly blinked them away.

Then the curtain fell. Men were clearing the floor for the dance, so,

bidding the lady adieu, I went downstairs.