mean?" asked Frank.

"Hardman, Ike Hardman himsilf."

"Who is he?"

"Didn't I tell ye he was the one that robbed me of my money? Sure I
did, what is the matter wid ye?"

"You told us about being robbed," said Jeff, "but didn't mention the
name of the man who did it."

"I want to inthrodooce mesilf to him!" exclaimed Tim, flushed with
indignation; "axscoose me for a bit."

He strode to the door with the intention of hunting up and chastising
the rogue, but, with his hand on the knob, checked himself. For a
moment he debated with himself, and then, as his broad face lit up with
his natural good humor, he came back to his chair, paraphrasing Uncle
Toby:

"The world's big enough for the likes of him and me, though he does
crowd a bit. Let him git all the good out of the theft he can, say I."

Dyea is at the head of navigation, and is the timber line, being a
hundred miles to the northwest of Juneau. It is at the upper fork of
what is termed Lynn Canal, the most extensive fiord on the coast. It
is, in truth, a continuation of Chatham Strait, the north and south
passage being several hundred miles in extent, the whole forming the
trough of a glacier which disappeared ages ago.

On the day following the incident described our friends boarded the
little, untidy steam launch bound for Dyea. There were fifty passengers
beside themselves, double the number it was intended to carry, the
destination of all being the gold fields. The weather was keen and
biting, and the accommodations on the boat poor. They pushed here and
there, surveying with natural interest the bleak scenery along shore,
the mountains white with snow, and foretelling the more terrible
regions that lay beyond. Hundreds of miles remained to be traversed
before they could expect to gather the yellow particles, but neither of
the sturdy lads felt any abatement of courage.

"Well, look at that!" suddenly exclaimed Roswell, catching the arm of
his companion as they were making their way toward the front of the
boat.

Frank turned in the direction indicated, and his astonishment was as
great as his companion's. Tim McCabe and the shabby scamp, Ike Hardman,
were sitting near each other on a bench, and smoking their pipes like
two affectionate brothers. No one would have suspected there had ever
been a ripple between them.

Catching the eye of the amazed boys, Tim winked and threw up his chin
as an invitation for them to approach. Frank shook his head, and