The Captain sighed.

“Twelve,” a voice sang out on the lower deck.

“Twelve,” repeated the Captain.

“Twelve,” echoed the pilot at the wheel.

“Twelve and a half,” from the man below, a tall, lean fellow, casting the sounding-pole.  With a rhythmic nonchalance he plants the long black and white staff at the ship’s side, draws it up dripping, plunges it down again, draws it up, and sends it down hour after hour.  He never seems to tire; he never seems to see anything but the water-mark, never to say anything but what he is chanting now, “Twelve and a half,” or some variation merely numerical.  You come to think him as little human as the calendar, only that his numbers are told off with the significance of sound, the suggested menace of a cry.  If the “sounding” comes too near the steamer’s draught, or the pilot fails to hear the reading, the Captain repeats it.  He often does so when there is no need; it is a form of conversation, noncommittal, yet smacking of authority.

“Ten.”

“Ten,” echoed the pilot, while the Captain was admitting that he had been mining vicariously “for twenty years, and never made a cent.  Always keep thinkin’ I’ll soon be able to give up steamboatin’ and buy a farm.”

He shook his head as one who sees his last hope fade.

But his ragged companion turned suddenly, and while the sparks fell in a fresh shower, “Well, Captain,” says he, “you’ve got the chance of your life right now.”

“Ten and a half.”

“Just what they’ve all said.  Wish I had the money I’ve wasted on grub-stakin’.”

The ragged one thrust his hands in the pockets of his chaparejos.

“I grub-staked myself, and I’m very glad I did.”

“Nobody in with you?”

“No.”

“Nine.”

Echo, “Nine.”

“Ten.”

“Pitcairn says, somehow or other, there’s been gold-washin’ goin’ on up here pretty well ever since the world began.”

“Indians?”

“No; seems to have been a bigger job than even white men could manage.  Instead o’ stamp-mills, glaciers grindin’ up the Mother Lode; instead o’ little sluice-boxes, rivers; instead o’ riffles, gravel bottoms.  Work, work, wash, wash, day and night, every summer for a million years.  Never a clean-up since the foundation of the world.  No, sir, waitin’ for us to do that—­waitin’ now up on Idaho Bar.”

The Captain looked at him, trying to conceal the envy in his soul.  They were sounding low water, but he never heard.  He looked round sharply as the course changed.

“I’ve done my assessment,” the ragged man went on joyously, “and I’m going to Dawson.”

This was bad navigation.  He felt instantly he had struck a snag.  The Captain smiled, and passed on sounding:  “Nine and a half.”

“But I’ve got a fortune on the Bar.  I’m not a boomer, but I believe in the Bar.”

“Six.”