into the channel. There were uproarious
souls on board, and many women of the town screaming farewells to their
friends. On the boat all was excited, extravagant joy; on the wharf, a
sorry attempt at resignation.

The last boat! they watched her as her stern paddle churned the freezing
water; they watched her forge her slow way through the ever-thickening
ice-flakes; they watched her in the far distance battling with the
Klondike current; then, sad and despondent, they turned away to their
lonely cabins. Never had their exile seemed so bitter. A few more days
and the river would close tight as a drum. The long, long night would
fall on them, and for nigh on eight weary months they would be cut off
from the outside world.

Yet soon, very soon, a mood of reconciliation would set in. They would
begin to make the best of things. To feed that great Octopus, the town,
the miners would flock in from the creeks with treasure hoarded up in
baking-powder tins; the dance-halls and gambling-places would absorb
them; the gaiety would go on full swing, and there would seem but little
change in the glittering abandon of the gold-camp. As I paced its
sidewalks once more I marvelled at its growth. New streets had been
made; the stores boasted expensive fittings and gloried in costly goods;
in the bar-rooms were splendid mirrors and ornate woodwork; the
restaurants offered European delicacies; all was on a new scale of
extravagance, of garish display, of insolent wealth.

Everywhere the man with the fat "poke" was in evidence. He came into
town unshorn, wild-looking, often raggedly clad, yet always with the
same wistful hunger in his eyes. You saw that look, and it took you back
to the dark and dirt and drudgery of the claim, the mirthless months of
toil, the crude cabin with its sugar barrel of ice behind the door, its
grease light dimly burning, its rancid smell of stale food. You saw him
lying smoking his strong pipe, looking at that can of nuggets on the
rough shelf, and dreaming of what it would mean to him--out there where
the lights glittered and the gramophones blared. Surely, if patience,
endurance, if grim, unswerving purpose, if sullen, desperate toil
deserved a reward, this man had a peckful of pleasure for his due.

And always that hungry, wistful look. The women with the painted cheeks
knew that look; the black-jack boosters knew it; the barkeeper with his
knock-out drops knew it. They waited for him; he was their "meat