frantic
eagerness impelled them; insistent, imperative; the trail called to
them, and the light of the gold-lust smouldered and flamed in their
uneasy eyes. Already the spirit of the gold-trail was awakening.

Hundreds of scattered tents; a few frame buildings, mostly saloons,
dance-halls and gambling joints; an eager, excited mob crowding on the
loose sidewalks, floundering knee-deep in the mire of the streets,
struggling and squabbling and cursing over their outfits--that is all I
remember of Skagway. The mountains, stark and bare to the bluff, seemed
to overwhelm the flimsy town, and between them, like a giant funnel, a
great wind was roaring.

Lawlessness was rampant, but it did not touch us. The thugs lay in wait
for the men with pokes from the "inside." To the great Cheechako army,
they gave little heed. They were captained by one Smith, known as
"Soapy," whom I had the fortune to meet. He was a pleasant-appearing,
sociable man, and no one would have taken him for a desperado, a killer
of men.

One picture of Skagway is still vivid in my memory. The scene is a
saloon, and along with the Prodigal, I am having a glass of beer. In a
corner sits a befuddled old man, half asleep. He is long and lank, with
a leathery face and a rusty goatee beard--as ragged, disreputable an old
sinner as ever bellied up to a bar. Suddenly there is a sound of
shooting. We rush out and there are two toughs blazing away at each
other from the sheltering corners of an opposite building.

"Hey, Dad! There's some shootin' goin' on," says the barkeeper.

The old man rouses and cocks up a bleary, benevolent eye.

"Shooting', did ye say? Pshaw! Them fellers don't know how to shoot. Old
Dad'll show 'em how to shoot."

He comes to the door, and lugging out a big rusty revolver, blazes away
at one of the combatants. The man, with a howl of surprise and pain,
limps away. The old man turns to the other fellow. Bang! We see
splinters fly, and a man running for dear life.

"Told you I'd show 'em how to shoot," remarks old Dad to us. "Thanks,
I'll have a gin-fizz for mine."

The Prodigal developed a wonderful executive ability about this time; he
was a marvel of activity, seemed to think of everything and to glory in
his responsibility as a leader. Always cheerful, always thoughtful, he
was the brains of our party. He never abated in his efforts a moment,
and was an example and a stimulus to us all. I say "all," for we had
added the "Jam-wag