not progressing, the evangelist dropped the
interpreter, rolled up his spiritual sleeves and pitched in as follows:

"Say, you Injun! you love God? You love Great Spirit?" No answer came
from the thin, drawn lips, tightly compressed and visible just over the
blankets edge in the corner of the lodge. "Say, John! you ready to die!
You make your peace with God! You go to heaven--to the happy
hunting-ground?" The chief, who had silenced the interpreter with a
single look, was apparently beyond the hearing of human speech; so the
evangelist, with a sigh, again inquired into the state of the salmon
market on the Pacific coast. Then the stricken brave turned a glazed eye
upon the man of God, and the latter once more sought to touch that heart
of stone: "I say, you Injun! you prepared to meet Great Spirit? You
ready to go to happy hunting-ground?" The chief's eyes flamed for a
moment, as with infinite scorn he muttered between his teeth to the
evangelist: "You ---- fool! You go to ----!" And he went.

While the steamer was slowly righting we had ample time to inspect the
beached hull of a schooner with a history. She was the Pioneer of
Casa-an once commanded by a famous old smuggler named Baronovich. Long
he sailed these waters; and, like Captain Kidd, he bore a charmed life
as he sailed. It is a mystery to me how any sea-faring man can trust his
craft to the mercy of the winds and tides of this myriad-islanded inland
sea. This ancient mariner, Baronovich, not only braved the elements, but
defied Russian officials, who kept an eye upon him night and day. On one
occasion, having been boarded by the vigilant inspectors, and his
piratical schooner thoroughly searched from stem to stern, he kindly
invited the gentlemen to dine with him, and entertained them at a board
groaning with the contraband luxuries which his suspicious guests had
been vainly seeking all the afternoon. It is a wee little cabin and a
shallow hold that furnish the setting for a sea-tale as wildly
picturesque as any that thrills the heart of your youthful reader; but
high and dry lies the moldering hulk of the dismantled smuggler, and
there is no one left to tell the tale.

As we lounged about, some hideous Indians--I trust they were not framed
in the image of their Maker,--ill-shapen lads, dumpy, expressionless
babies, green-complexioned half-breeds, sat and looked on with utter
indifference. Many of the Haida Indians have kinky or wavy hair,
Japanese or Chin