“I’ve been to the Kobuk,” Folsom told him.

“Kobuk?  I hear she’s a bum.”

“‘Bum’ is right.  Maybe she’ll do to dredge some day.”

“Too bad you missed the Oregon; there she goes now.”  The man pointed seaward.

“Too bad?”

“Sure!  Don’t you know?  Why, Miz Folsom went out on her!”

Folsom halted; after a momentary pause he repeated, vaguely, “Went out?”

“Exactly.  Didn’t you know she was going?”

“Oh yes—­of course!  The Oregon!” Folsom stared at the fading plume of black smoke; there was a curious brightness in his eyes, his face was white beneath its tan.  “She sailed on the Oregon and I missed her, by an hour!  That broken shaft—­” He began to laugh, and turning his back upon the sea he plodded heavily through the sand toward the main street.

Folsom found no word from his wife, his house was empty; but he learned that “the man” had also gone to the States, and he drew his own conclusions.  Since Lois had ordered her life as she saw fit there was nothing to do but wait and endure—­doubtless the divorce would come in time.  Nevertheless, he could not think of that broken shaft without raving.

Being penniless he looked for work, and his first job came from a small Jewish merchant, named Guth, who offered him a hundred dollars to do the assessment work on a tundra claim.  For twenty days Folsom picked holes through frozen muck, wondering why a thrifty person like Guth would pay good money to hold such unpromising property as this.

The claim was in sight of Nome, and as Folsom finished his last day’s labor he heard bells ringing and whistles blowing and discovered that the town was ablaze.  He hurried in to find that an entire block in the business center of the city had been destroyed and with it Guth’s little store, including all its contents.  He found the Jew in tears.

“What a misfortune!” wailed the merchant.  “Ruined, absolutely—­and by a match!  It started in my store—­my little girl, you understand?  And now, all gone!” He tore his beard and the tears rolled down his cheeks.

The little man’s grief was affecting, and so Folsom inquired more gently than he intended, “I’m sorry, of course, but how about my money for the Lulu assessment?”

“Money?  There’s your money!” Guth pointed sadly into the smoldering ruins.  “Go find it—­you’re welcome to anything I have left.  Gott!  What a country!  How can a man get ahead, with no insurance?”

Folsom laughed mirthlessly.  His hard luck was becoming amusing and he wondered how long it would last.  He had counted on that hundred dollars to get away from Nome, hoping to shake misfortune from his heels, but a match in the hands of a child, like that broken propeller shaft, had worked havoc with his plans.  Well, it was useless to cry.

To the despairing Hebrew he said:  “Don’t lose your grip, old man.  Buck up and take another start.  You have your wife and your little girl, at least, and you’re the sort who makes good.”