“They’re fools an’ daft, wi’ their runnin’ hither an’ yon after new strikes. Continually runnin’ after strange gods, as the Gude Book says. But, wait till I get my b’iler, an’ start steam thawin’! Next summer--next summer if the dump sluices out big, Pete Enright, ye’ll see Nolan, an’ Wiseman, an’ this new Hammond River, stampedin’ back to Myrtle, an’ every one of ’em that can afford it, wi’ a b’iler on his claim.” “Well, mebbe--mebbe, Gordon. I ain’t sayin’ they won’t, an’ I ain’t sayin’ they will. Personal, I ain’t got no faith in no b’iler fer gold diggin’.” “It’s because ye don’t know no better! Why, man, look here! Don’t it stand to reason--” and Gordon launched into his favorite theme with enthusiasm that a thousand repetitions had not dampened, and while Enright listened in tolerant silence, Lou slipped into the cabin and began the preparation of supper. The meal over, Gordon showed signs of renewing his discussion of “b’ilers,” but was forestalled by Enright: “About this here dog race, Miss Lou, that I was speakin’ of----” “Dog race? Dog race?” queried the old man, “What foolishness is this about a dog race?” “It won’t be foolishness none whatever fer the winner,” replied Enright. “We figgered on puttin’ up a prize of about twenty-five ounces. That’s four hundred dollars, an’ not so bad fer a day’s work, neither. That is, that’s what we figger to put up if Miss Lou will enter her team. If she won’t they won’t be no dog race whatever.” “Why, how ridiculous!” cried the girl. “What possible difference can it make whether or not I enter? Surely, with a prize of twenty-five ounces, you can get plenty of teams in the race.” “Yeh, quite a considerable of ’em--if it wasn’t fer Jake Dalzene. But, that ain’t the p’int. I’ll kind of give you a line on how things is, an’ the way the boys thinks up the river, an’ you kin jedge fer yerself. “They’s a low down skunk of a hooch-runnin’ squaw man, name of Jake Dalzene that lives down to Rampart on the Yukon. You know they ain’t no Rampart no more, she’s plumb abandoned all but the native village, an’ this here party lives there with the Injuns, you know the kind. That is, he lives there when he ain’t off somewheres else peddlin’ hooch to the Injuns off the river. He’s plum _kultus_--has him a new squaw ’bout every full moon, an’ kicks ’em an’ beats ’em like he handles his dogs. Well, this here party is up to Nolan, him an’ his pardner. Worked along up the river with a couple sled loads of hooch, an’ got red of it tradin’ with the Injuns fer fur. When he heard the talk about pullin’ a big hurrah around Chris’mus, he begun to talk dog race, an’ dog fight. He’s claimed to be one of the hardest men on dogs in Alaska, but he’s always got a good team. Either he figgers he kin haul more hooch with good dogs, or else he needs ’em to git away from the marshals, I don’t know which, but anyway, he’s got good dogs.