rs in white
jackets were mixing drinks with masterly dexterity. It was a motley
crowd. There were men in broadcloth and fine linen, men in blue shirts
and mud-stiffened overalls, grey-bearded elders and beardless boys. It
was a noisy crowd, laughing, brawling, shouting, singing. Here was the
foam of life, with never a hint of the muddy sediment underneath.

To the left I had a view of the gambling-room, a glimpse of green
tables, of spinning balls, of cool men, with shades over their eyes,
impassively dealing. There were huge wheels of fortune, keno tables,
crap outfits, faro layouts, and, above all, the dainty, fascinating
roulette. Everything was in full swing. Miners with flushed faces and a
wild excitement in their eyes were plunging recklessly; others, calm,
alert, anxious, were playing cautiously. Here and there were the fevered
faces of women. Gold coin was stacked on the tables, while a man with a
pair of scales was weighing dust from the tendered pokes.

In front of me was a double swing-door painted in white and gold, and,
pushing through this, for the first time I found myself in a Dawson
dance-hall.

I remember being struck by the gorgeousness of it, its glitter and its
glow. Who would have expected, up in this bleak-visaged North, to find
such a fairyland of a place? It was painted in white and gold, and set
off by clusters of bunched lights. There was much elaborate scroll-work
and ornate decoration. Down each side, raised about ten feet from the
floor, and supported on gilt pillars, were little private boxes hung
with curtains of heliotrope silk. At the further end of the hall was a
stage, and here a vaudeville performance was going on.

I sat down on a seat at the very back of the audience. Before me were
row after row of heads, mostly rough, rugged and unwashed. Their faces
were eager, rapt as those of children. They were enjoying, with the deep
satisfaction of men who for many a weary month had been breathing the
free, unbranded air of the Wild. The sensuous odour of patchouli was
strangely pleasant to them; the sight of a woman was thrillingly sweet;
the sound of a song was ravishing. Looking at many of those toil-grooved
faces one could see that there was no harm in their hearts. They were
honest, uncouth, simple; they were just like children, the children of
the Wild.

A woman of generous physique was singing in a shrill, nasal voice a
pathetic ballad. She sang without expression, bringing her