“Let’s liquor,” invited the man, “Here, shove this in your pocket.” He lifted MacShane’s sack from the bar, upon which the bartender had already placed decanter and glasses. Still in bewilderment, MacShane poured his drink, and the big man followed. “Trouble is with us--not you, sourdough,” he smiled. “We think we ain’t a camp any more--we’re a city. We’re dudes! There ain’t a man in the house that could make twenty-five miles on the trail to save his life. We’re civilized plumb helpless. An’ it wasn’t so long ago that I struck this camp with a pair of greasy overalls an’ a ragged parka, an’ drunk whiskey out of a tin can. An’ Strake run the lowest lived dump in the camp. But times have changed. There’s more raw gold here than anywhere else in the world--yet Strake ain’t even got a pair of scales. We don’t pan-wash an’ hand-sluice any more--an’ we pay our bills with checks.” The man paused and uplifted his glass. “Well, here’s how.” MacShane drank and returned the empty glass to the bar: “I see,” he said, slowly. “An’ I’m sure obliged to you for tellin’ me. I’d buy a drink, but I ain’t got a check.” The big man laughed. “Down the street,” he said, “and around the first corner to your right, you’ll see a sign that says MALAMUTE SALOON. _Saloon_--not café. If I was you, I’d kind of loaf down there. It’s--our kind of a dump. The boys will be glad to see you. An’ there’s scales sittin’ on the bar.” “Thanks,” said MacShane, “I’ll go there. So long.” As he passed close beside a table on his way to the door, he heard a man whisper to his companion, “That’s H. P. Smith. He’s cleaned up ten million, dredging.” In the Malamute Saloon, MacShane ordered a round of drinks, but he did it unostentatiously, half-expecting another rebuff. But the men in moccasins and woolens crowded the bar and drank his health heartily, and he was immediately swamped with invitations to drink with them. One more drink he took, and retiring to a table toward the rear, ordered supper. All about him, as he ate he could hear men discussing the great dog race. Argument waxed hot. Bets were made, and the stakes put with the proprietor. Life here was as it should be. Nome hadn’t all turned dude.