a mistress was not to be in the swim.
Words cannot express the infinite and general degradation. It is
scarcely possible to exaggerate it. That teeming town at the mouth of
the Klondike set a pace in libertinism that has never been equalled.

I would divide its population into three classes: the sporting
fraternity, whose business it was to despoil and betray; the business
men, drawn more or less into the vortex of dissipation; the miners from
the creeks, the Man with the Poke, here to-day, gone, to-morrow, and of
them all the most worthy of respect. He was the prop and mainstay of the
town. It was like a vast trap set to catch him. He would "blow in"
brimming with health and high spirits; for a time he would "get into the
game;" sooner or later he would cut loose and "hit the high places";
then, at last, beggared and broken, he would crawl back in shame and
sorrow to the claim. O, that grey city! could it ever tell its woes and
sorrows the great, white stars above would melt into compassionate
tears.

Ah well, to the devil with all moralising! A short life and a merry one.
Switch on the lights! Ring up the curtain! On with the play!

* * * * *

In the casino a crowd is gathering round the roulette wheel. Three-deep
they stand. A woman rushes out from the dance-hall and pushes her way
through the throng. She is very young, very fair and redundant of life.
A man jostles her. From frank blue eyes she flashes a look at him, and
from lips sweet as those of a child there comes the remonstrance: "Curse
you; take care."

The men make way for her, and she throws a poke of dust on the red. "A
hundred dollars out of that," she says. The coupier nods; the wheel
spins round; she loses.

"Give me another two hundred in chips," she cries eagerly. The dealer
hands them to her, and puts her poke in a drawer. Again and again she
plays, placing chips here and there round the table. Sometimes she wins,
sometimes she loses. At last she has quite a pile of chips before her.
She laughs gleefully. "I guess I'll cash in now," she says. "That's good
enough for to-night."

The man hands her back her poke, writes out a cheque for her winnings,
and off she goes like a happy child.

"Who's that?" I ask.

"That? that's Blossom. She's a 'bute,' she is. Want a knockdown? Come on
round to the dance-hall."

* * * * *

Once more I see the Youth. He is nearing the end of his tethe