“Gosh darn my buttoms!” said Hootchinoo Bill.  “Seems likes you and me, Kink, is the kind of folks always caught out with forks when it rains soup.”

“Wouldn’t it take the saleratus out your dough, now?” said Kink Mitchell.  “A stampede of tin-horns, drunks, an’ loafers.”

“An’ squaw-men,” added Bill.  “Not a genooine miner in the whole caboodle.”

“Genooine miners like you an’ me, Kink,” he went on academically, “is all out an’ sweatin’ hard over Birch Creek way.  Not a genooine miner in this whole crazy Dawson outfit, and I say right here, not a step do I budge for any Carmack strike.  I’ve got to see the colour of the dust first.”

“Same here,” Mitchell agreed.  “Let’s have another drink.”

Having wet this resolution, they beached the canoe, transferred its contents to their cabin, and cooked dinner.  But as the afternoon wore along they grew restive.  They were men used to the silence of the great wilderness, but this gravelike silence of a town worried them.  They caught themselves listening for familiar sounds—­“waitin’ for something to make a noise which ain’t goin’ to make a noise,” as Bill put it.  They strolled through the deserted streets to the Monte Carlo for more drinks, and wandered along the river bank to the steamer landing, where only water gurgled as the eddy filled and emptied, and an occasional salmon leapt flashing into the sun.

They sat down in the shade in front of the store and talked with the consumptive storekeeper, whose liability to hemorrhage accounted for his presence.  Bill and Kink told him how they intended loafing in their cabin and resting up after the hard summer’s work.  They told him, with a certain insistence, that was half appeal for belief, half challenge for contradiction, how much they were going to enjoy their idleness.  But the storekeeper was uninterested.  He switched the conversation back to the strike on Klondike, and they could not keep him away from it.  He could think of nothing else, talk of nothing else, till Hootchinoo Bill rose up in anger and disgust.

“Gosh darn Dawson, say I!” he cried.

“Same here,” said Kink Mitchell, with a brightening face.  “One’d think something was doin’ up there, ‘stead of bein’ a mere stampede of greenhorns an’ tinhorns.”

But a boat came into view from down-stream.  It was long and slim.  It hugged the bank closely, and its three occupants, standing upright, propelled it against the stiff current by means of long poles.

“Circle City outfit,” said the storekeeper.  “I was lookin’ for ’em along by afternoon.  Forty Mile had the start of them by a hundred and seventy miles.  But gee! they ain’t losin’ any time!”

“We’ll just sit here quiet-like and watch ’em string by,” Bill said complacently.

As he spoke, another boat appeared in sight, followed after a brief interval by two others.  By this time the first boat was abreast of the men on the bank.  Its occupants did not cease poling while greetings were exchanged, and, though its progress was slow, a half-hour saw it out of sight up river.