ned to their owners in this way." But to leave their police duties
and hunt the stray horses of careless settlers was a little too much to
ask.

Up in the Yukon that year there were contrasting pictures of events in a
country that could always be counted on for happenings of interest.
There is a fine touch in a report from that tender-hearted officer, the
late Inspector Horrigan. Two gallant Police Constables, Campbell and
Heathcote, were drowned at the mouth of the Stickine River, where they
were crossing in an old boat as no other was at hand. Campbell's body
was not found, but Heathcote's was recovered and brought to the nearest
point, Wrangel, in the United States, for interment. "I am informed that
the funeral was one of the largest and most impressive ever held in
Wrangel. The service was conducted by the Rev. Mr. Reirdon, of the
Presbyterian Church, with a full choir. The edifice was crowded to the
doors, and the majority followed the remains to the last resting place.
I chanced to be in Wrangel on June 30, Memorial Day, and noticing a
procession of children clothed in white, several veterans of the Civil
War and a number of citizens, I followed them to the cemetery and
witnessed a very touching sight. To my surprise I noticed that Constable
Heathcote's was the first grave decorated with bouquets and
sweet-smelling flowers by kind and loving hands. It mattered not to them
what altar he knelt at or what flag he had served under. They knew him
in life as a policeman, proud of his uniform and his country. In death
they honoured his memory." This is well put by Horrigan, and the whole
incident indicated the deep-seated attachment existing between the two
great branches of the English-speaking race. Incidents like this go far
to destroy the "ancient grudge" which some Americans have against
Britain because a century and a half ago a foolish British King and a
still more foolish set of advisers treated British subjects overseas in
an absolutely un-British way.

And then in the same northern area we have in the report of that exact
and capable Inspector, W. H. Routledge, another side of life in the
account of a murder case which, in cold-blooded deliberateness and
treachery, perhaps puts the O'Brien case into the shade. O'Brien was a
very inhuman and brutal murderer, but he, though on the look-out for
prey, seems to have somewhat accidentally fallen in at Fossal's
road-house with the three men he murdered a few miles f