"Nothing but skin boats, kyaks, and bidarkas--you know. Anyhow, you couldn't cross at this time of year--it's too stormy; these Straits is the worst piece of water on the coast. No, you'll have to wait." Emerson sank back into his chair, and stared hopelessly at the fire. "Better have some breakfast," the trader continued; but the other only shook his head. And after a farewell squint of curiosity, the fat man rolled out again in pursuit of his duties. "I've heard tell of these Shelikof Straits," Fraser remarked. "I bunked with a bear-hunter from Kodiak once, and he said they was certainly some hell in winter." When Emerson made no reply, the fellow's colorless eyes settled upon him with a trace of solicitude, and he resumed: "I'm doggone sorry you lost out, pal, but mebbe something'll turn up yet." Then, seeing that the young man was deaf to his condolence, he muttered: "So, you've got 'em again, eh? Um!" As usual on such occasions, he fell into his old habit of reading aloud, as it were, an imaginary scene to himself: "'Yes, I've got 'em again,' says Mr. Emerson, always eager to give entertainment with the English language. 'I am indeed blue this afternoon. Won't you talk to me? I feel that the sound of a dear friend's voice will drive dull care away.' "'Gladly,' says I; 'I am a silent man by birth and training, and my thoughts is jewels, but for you, I'll scatter them at large, and you can take your pick. Now, this salmon business ain't what it's cracked up to be, after all. It's a smelly proposition, no matter how you take it, and a fisherman ain't much better than a Reub; ask any wise guy. I'd rather see you in some profesh that don't stink so, like selling scented soap. There was a feller at Dyea who done well at it. What think you?' "'It's a dark night without,' says Mr. Emerson, 'and I fear some mischief is afoot!' "'But what of yonder beauteous--'" Unheeding this chatter, the disheartened man got up at this juncture, as if a sudden thought impelled him, and followed Balt out into the cold. He turned down the bank to the creek, however, and made a careful examination of all the canoes that went with the village. Fifteen minutes later he had searched out the disgruntled fisherman, and cried, excitedly: "I've got it! We'll catch that boat yet!" "How?" growled the big man, sourly. "There's a large open skin-boat, an oomiak, down on the beach. We'll hire a crew of Indians to put us across to Uyak." "Can't be done," said Big George, still gruffly. "It's the wrong season. You know the Shelikof Straits is a bad place even for steamships at this time of year. They're like that Pass up yonder, only worse." "But it's only fifty miles across." "Fifty miles of that kind of water in an open canoe may be just as bad as five hundred--unless you're lucky. And I ain't noticed anything so damned lucky about us." "Well, it's that or nothing. It's our only chance. Are you game?" "Come on," cried Big George, "let's find Petellin!"