Swiftwater stood at the gang plank and eagerly scanned every face until the last man had come ashore and only the deck hands remained on board. “There is certainly a letter in the mail, anyhow,” said Swiftwater. For the first time in all of this miserable experience I realized that a heavy burden was on Swiftwater’s shoulders--a load that was crushing the heart and brain of him--and that would, unless relieved, destroy all of the man’s native capacity to handle his tangled affairs, even under the most unfavorable circumstances. I decided to watch Swiftwater very closely. I noticed that he was not to be seen around town in his usual haunts. I did not dare ask him if he feared arrest, for that would show that I knew that his crisis had come. Two hours after the Yukoner’s mail was in the postoffice, Swiftwater came to my room. “There is no letter from Joe,” was all he said. I made no reply except to say: “Have you told Bera?” “No, and I’m not going to--now,” said Swiftwater and then left the room. Swiftwater had between $35,000 and $40,000 of my money in his Quartz Creek concession. I had felt absolutely secure for the reason that if the property was well handled my interest should be worth from $100,000 to $250,000. My faith in the property has been justified by subsequent events, as all well informed Dawson mining men will testify. But the want of money was bitter and keen at that moment. Yet I scarcely knew what to advise Swiftwater to do. Gates and Bera came to my rooms after dinner that night. “Will this help you pay a few pressing little bills?” asked Swiftwater, as he threw two fifty dollar paper notes in my lap. “My God, Swiftwater, can’t you spare any more than $100?” I gasped. “Oh, that’s just for now--I’ll give you plenty more tomorrow,” said he. As they arose to go, Bera kissed me on the mouth and cheek with her arms around my neck. “You love the baby, don’t you mama?” said Bera, and I saw then, without seeing, and came afterwards to know that there were tears in Bera’s eyes and a smile dewy with affection on her lips. Swiftwater put his arm around me and kissed me on the forehead. “We’ll be over early for you for breakfast tomorrow,” said Swiftwater as they went down the stairs. Holding the baby in my arms at the window, I watched Swiftwater and Bera go down the street, Bera turning now and again to wave her hand and throw a kiss to me, Swiftwater lifting his hat. Now, what I am about to relate may seem almost incredible to any normal human mind and heart; and especially so to those thousands of Alaskans who knew Swiftwater in the early days to be jolly, though impractical, yet always generous, whole-souled, brave and honest. An hour after Swiftwater and Bera had gone, there was a knock at my door. I opened it and there stood Phil Wilson--an old associate and friend of Swiftwater’s. “Is Bill Gates here?” asked Wilson. “Why, no,” said I. “They went over an hour ago.”