“Think of it!” exclaimed Marcia.  “Coal from the Orient, the lowest grade, when we should be exporting the best.  Think of the handicap, the injustice put upon those pioneer Alaskans who fought tremendous obstacles to open the interior; who paved the way for civilization.”

Tisdale’s face clouded.  “I am thinking of those pioneers, madam, and I believe the Government is going to.  Present laws can be easily amended and enforced to fit nearly every situation until better ones are framed.  The settler and prospector should have privileges, but at the same time the Government must put some restriction on speculation and monopoly.”

Behind the awning Jimmie’s pencil was racing down the page, and Morganstein dropped his head back on the pillow; a purplish flush rose in his face.

“The trouble is,” Hollis went on evenly, “each senator has been so over-burdened with the bills of his own State that Alaska has been side-tracked.  But I know the President’s interest is waking; he wants to see the situation intelligently; in fact, he favors a Government-built railroad from the coast to the upper Yukon.  And I believe as soon as a selection is made for naval use, some of those old disputed coal claims—­ some, not all—­will be allowed.  Or else—­Congress must pass a bill to lease Alaska coal lands.”

“Lease Alaska coal lands?” Frederic started up again so recklessly he was forced to sink back with a groan.  “Do you mean we won’t be allowed to mine any coal in Alaska, in that case, except by lease?” And he added, turning his cheek to the pillow, “Oh, damn!”

Tisdale seemed not to have heard the question.  His glance moved slowly again over the opal sea and rested on the shining ramparts of the Olympics, off the port bow.  “Constance!” he exclaimed mellowly.  “The Brothers!  Eleanor!” Then he said whimsically:  “Thank God they can’t set steam-shovels to work there and level those peaks and fill the canyons.  Do you know?”—­his look returned briefly and the genial lines deepened—­ “those mountains were my playground when I was a boy.  My last hunting trip, the year I finished college, came to an untimely end up there in the gorge of the Dosewallups.  You see it?  That shaded contour cross-cutting the front of Constance.”

Elizabeth, who had opened her workbag, looked up with sudden interest.  “Was there an accident?” she asked.  “Something desperate and thrilling?”

“It seemed so to me,” he said.

Then Mrs. Weatherbee rose and came over to the port rail.  “I see,” she said, and shaded her eyes with her hand.  “You mean where that gold mist rises between that snow slope and the blue rim of that lower, nearer mountain.  And you had camped in that gorge”—­her hand dropped; she turned to him expectantly—­“with friends, on a hunting trip?”

He paused a moment then answered slowly:  “Yes, madam, with one of them.  Sandy, our old camp cook, made a third in the party.”