w to arrange stones to form a
crude, open-air fireplace in front of his door for use in fine weather.
It was Kayak Bill who taught his blundering hands the trail way of
stirring up a bannock and baking it in a frying-pan propped up before
the blaze.

Harlan now had less time to think about himself. The little can stove
required much finely chopped firewood to keep it going. The open-air
fireplace consumed large quantities of drift which he had to chop with
an axe, since the one saw on the Island was needed at the cabin. After
his day's work with Boreland, he had his meals to prepare. There were
brown beans to clean and cook, and sourdough hotcakes to set for the
morning. Kayak had taught him to prepare his sourdoughs--a resource
which was to become the food mainstay of all on the Island. Harlan
learned from the old man that the sourdough hotcake, or flapjack is as
typical of Alaska as the glacier. The wilderness man carries, always,
a little can filled with a batter of it; with this he starts the
leavening of his bread, or, with the addition of a pinch of soda he
fries it in the form of flapjacks. So typical a feature of Alaska is
the sourdough pot that the old timer in the North is called a
"Sourdough."

Harlan grew to have a real fondness for his Hut--the only home he had
ever made for himself. Its very primitiveness endeared it to him. He
grew also to look forward to the fine evenings when he and Kayak,
stretched before the open fireplace with their backs to a bleached
whale rib, smoked and yarned and sang, while they watched the leaping
driftwood flames.

Strange, picturesque characters of the last frontier stalked through
all Kayak Bill's tales: Reckless Bonanza Kings of Klondyke days, buying
with their new-found gold the love of painted women; simple-hearted,
gentle Aleuts kissing the footprints of skirted, bearded, Russian
priests; pathetic, gay ladies of adventure; half-mad hermits of the
hills; secretive squaw-men, and wistful, emotional half-breeds--all
these Kayak Bill made to live again in the glow of the evening fire.

In his quaint, whimsical way he told of the prospector--that brave
heart who makes gold but an excuse for his going forth to conquer the
wilds. Harlan came to understand them--the lure of gold, and their
slogan: "_This_ time we will strike it." Through Kayak Bill's eyes he
saw them aged, broken by the rigors of many northern winters, but with
the indomitable spirit of youth s