"It nearly kills me," he smiled. "I'm the worst-heeled man in the
crowd."
"Well, it's a darned outrage. A ton of grub? Why, have you seen the
trail? Take a look; it's a man-killer, and the rate is forty cents a
pound to Linderman. It'll go to fifty now--maybe a dollar--and there
aren't enough packers to handle half the stuff."
"Things are worse at Skagway," another man volunteered. "I came up
yesterday, and they're losing a hundred head of horses a day--bogging
'em down and breaking their legs. You can walk on dead carcasses from
the Porcupine to the Summit."
A third stranger, evidently one of the well-provided few, laughed
carelessly. "If you boys can't stand the strain you'd better stay where
you are," said he. "Grub's sky-high in Dawson, and mighty short. I knew
what I was up against, so I came prepared. Better go home and try it
next summer."
The first speaker, he of the sullen visage, turned his back, muttering,
resentfully: "Another wise guy! They make me sick! I've a notion to go
through anyhow."
"Don't try that," cautioned the man from Skagway. "If you got past the
Police they'd follow you to hell but what they'd bring you back. They
ain't like our police."
Still meditating his plight, Pierce Phillips edged out of the crowd and
walked slowly down the street. It was not a street at all, except by
courtesy, for it was no more than an open waterfront faced by a few log
buildings and a meandering line of new white tents. Tents were going up
everywhere and all of them bore painful evidence of their newness. So
did the clothes of their owners for that matter--men's garments still
bore their price-tags. The beach was crowded with piles of merchandise
over which there was much wrangling, barges plying regularly back and
forth from the anchored ships added hourly to the confusion. As outfits
were dumped upon the sand their owners assembled them and bore them
away to their temporary camp sites. In this occupation every man faced
his own responsibilities single-handed, for there were neither drays
nor carts nor vehicles of any sort.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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