The giant nodded and strode out on seven-league boots. A moment later Hildegarde had laid $125 down before the alcohol-reeking, red-eyed, nervous agent, who seemed to feel called on to explain that he’d been up all night “on the water front, seeing off the _Huron_.” While he made out the voucher, huskily he congratulated the young lady that an intending passenger by this best of all ships had had a fit on the water front the night before, and was probably dying now “over at the Rainier Grand.” His wife had been in half an hour ago about reselling the ticket. And that was it. Number twenty-one. He handed Hildegarde the slip of gray-blue paper which transferred to her the dying man’s right to a first-class berth on Hankin & Company’s Steamer _Congress_, sailing from Seattle to Cape Nome on the 19th of May. Now for a decision amongst the contending outfitters and provision dealers. She had studied well the prospectuses, the “folders” and the hand-books. She had made notes and lists. She knew she must provide herself with: “_A tent and two pair dark blue Hudson Bay blankets._ “_Water boots._ “_Several yards stout netting._ “_Leather gaiters._ “_Cowboy’s hat._ “_Canvas bag, with shoulder strap._ “_Oil stove, and oil._” To this, upon her mother’s initiative, she proposed to add a pistol; on her own, four pounds of chocolate and a handsome supply of peppermints. She had culled from newspapers, books, and advertisements at least six different lists of the kind and quantity of food one would need. Already she had ordered several cases of mineral water, but she was still pondering “evaporated eggs,” “desiccated potatoes,” “malted milk tablets,” and “bouillon capsules,” as she stood in one of the great provision houses that very day she had got her ticket. The place was crowded. Here, as elsewhere, a few women among the many men; both sexes equally bent on business. While she waited in the throng, a clerk who, with difficulty, had been making his way to her, interrupted a query modestly preferred by a little weather-beaten woman in black. As if he had not heard the one who spoke, of the one who had said nothing he asked, “Is anybody looking after you?” “As soon as the lady has finished—” began Hildegarde. The rusty one glanced at her fellow-woman in some surprise, and said again to the clerk, “I just stepped in to ask you to be sure to have a keg of witch-hazel ready to go out with our stuff. You ran out of it last year.” “Oh, are you Mrs. Blumpitty?” “Yes.” “Have you given your order?” The clerk’s manner had changed, he had plenty of time now. “Mr. Blumpitty will step in to-morrow about it. He is quite a little rushed to-day, hunting around for a place to sleep in.” “There’s a good many doing that,” said the clerk. “There hasn’t been a room vacant at a hotel for a week.” “I guess that’s right. And we got a party of twenty-eight this time. I only wanted to jog you about that witch-hazel.” She was moving off.