He found a man, with a team of horses and a wagon, who got out of bed and harnessed up for twenty dollars.  Churchill crawled in on the wagon-bed and slept, the gripsack still on his back.  It was a rough ride, over water-washed boulders down the Dyea Valley; but he roused only when the wagon hit the highest places.  Any altitude of his body above the wagon-bed of less than a foot did not faze him.  The last mile was smooth going, and he slept soundly.

He came to in the gray dawn, the driver shaking him savagely and howling into his ear that the Athenian was gone.  Churchill looked blankly at the deserted harbor.

“There’s a smoke over at Skaguay,” the man said.

Churchill’s eyes were too swollen to see that far, but he said:  “It’s she.  Get me a boat.”

The driver was obliging, and found a skiff and a man to row it for ten dollars, payment in advance.  Churchill paid, and was helped into the skiff.  It was beyond him to get in by himself.  It was six miles to Skaguay, and he had a blissful thought of sleeping those six miles.  But the man did not know how to row, and Churchill took the oars and toiled for a few more centuries.  He never knew six longer and more excruciating miles.  A snappy little breeze blew up the inlet and held him back.  He had a gone feeling at the pit of the stomach, and suffered from faintness and numbness.  At his command, the man took the bailer and threw salt water into his face.

The Athenian’s anchor was up-and-down when they came alongside, and Churchill was at the end of his last remnant of strength.

“Stop her!  Stop her!” he shouted hoarsely.  “Important message!  Stop her!”

Then he dropped his chin on his chest and slept.  “When half a dozen men started to carry him up the gang-plank, he awoke, reached for the grip, and clung to it like a drowning man.  On deck he became a center of horror and curiosity.  The clothing in which he had left White Horse was represented by a few rags, and he was as frayed as his clothing.  He had traveled for fifty-five hours at the top notch of endurance.  He had slept six hours in that time, and he was twenty pounds lighter than when he started.  Face and hands and body were scratched and bruised, and he could scarcely see.  He tried to stand up, but failed, sprawling out on the deck, hanging on to the gripsack, and delivering his message.

“Now, put me to bed,” he finished; “I’ll eat when I wake up.”

They did him honor, carrying him down in his rags and dirt and depositing him and Bondell’s grip in the bridal chamber, which was the biggest and most luxurious stateroom in the ship.  Twice he slept the clock around, and he had bathed and shaved and eaten and was leaning over the rail smoking a cigar when the two hundred pilgrims from White Horse came alongside.