one, only the gold-lust, triumphant and
repellent. It was the survival of the fittest, the most tenacious, the
most brutal. Yet there was something grandly terrible about it all. It
was a barbaric invasion, an army, each man fighting for his own hand
under the banner of gold. It was conquest. Every day, as I watched that
human torrent, I realised how vast, how irresistible it was. It was
Epic, it was Historical.

Many pitiful things I saw--men with haggard, hopeless faces, throwing
their outfits into the snow and turning back broken-hearted; men
staggering blindly on, exhausted to despair, then dropping wearily by
the trail side in the bitter cold and sinister gloom; weaklings, every
one. Many terrible things I saw--men cursing each other, cursing the
trail, cursing their God, and in the echo of their curses, grinding
their teeth and stumbling on. Then they would vent their fury and spite
on the poor dumb animals. Oh, what cruelty there was! The life of the
brute was as nothing; it was the tribute of the trail; it was a
sacrifice on the altar of human greed.

Long before dawn the trail awakened and the air was full of breakfast
smells, chiefly that of burnt porridge: for pots were seldom scraped,
neither were dishes washed. Soon the long-drawn-out army was on the
march, jaded animals straining at their loads, their drivers reviling
and beating them. All the men were bearded, and many of them wore
parkas. As many of the women had discarded petticoats, it was often
difficult at a short distance to tell the sex of a person. There were
tents built on sleighs, with faces of women and children peering out
from behind. It was a wonderful procession, all classes, all
nationalities, greybeards and striplings, parsons and prostitutes, rich
and poor, filing past in their thousands, drawn desperately on by the
golden magnet.

One day we were making a trip with a load of our stuff when, just ahead,
there was a check in the march, so I and the Jam-wagon went forward to
investigate. It was our old friend Bullhammer in difficulties. He had
rather a fine horse, and in passing a sump-hole, his sled had skidded
and slipped downhill into the water. Now he was belabouring the animal
unmercifully, acting like a crazy man, shouting in a frenzy of rage.

The horse was making the most gallant efforts I ever saw, but, with
every fresh attempt, its strength weakened. Time and again it came down
on its knees, which were raw and bleeding. It wa