On Wednesday, a launch, with three men in her, put in from No. 1 camp
at Susquahamma, bearing an order as long as my arm, duly endorsed in a
business-like way and all according to requirements.

It took me most of the afternoon to put that order up. The men did not
seem to mind, as they reckoned the going and returning to camp a
well-nigh all-day job for them. They made Jake's shack their
headquarters, spending all of the last two hours of their time in his
cabin.

Thursday brought another launch, this time from Camp No. 3, and the
same process was gone through as with No. 1, including the visit of the
visitors to Jake's shack.

In an ordinary case, I would have been beginning to fear that that
shack had become a common shebeen, but I knew Jake was not the man to
accept money from any of his fellow creatures in exchange for any
hospitality it might be in his power to offer. A few days later came a
repeat order from No. 1 Camp, then a request from the Cannery, which I
was able to fill only in part, as many things required by them had not
been included in the original orders given to the Vancouver wholesalers.

I was beginning to wonder where Camp No. 2 was getting its supplies
from, when, one day, about two weeks after my opening, they showed up.

Two men came over in a fast-moving launch of a much better type than
those in use by the other camps. The men were big and burly fellows.
One of them was unmistakably Irish; the other looked of Swedish
extraction.

"You the man that looks after this joint?" asked the Swede.

"I am," I answered.

He looked me up and down, for I was on the same side of the counter as
they. Then he turned to his Irish companion with a grin.

"Say, mister,--where's your hoss?" he asked, addressing me.

Both laughed loudly.

At first I failed to see the point of hilarity.

"What is the joke?" I asked.

"Guess you are!" said the Swede. And the two men laughed louder than
ever.

"Look here!" I cried, my blood getting up, "I want you two to
understand, first go off, that I am not in the habit of standing up to
be grinned at. What do you want? Speak out your business or get out
of here and tumble back into your boat."

"Ach!--it's all right, matey," put in the Irishman. "Just a bit av fun
out av yer breeches and leggings. We Canucks don't wear breeches and
leggings in grocery stores. Do we, Jan?"

"Guess nit," said Jan. And they both laughed again.

I cooled down, t