Being in a town that was at once a frontier camp and a minor seaport, and being there at a season when the major industry of salmon-packing was at its height, the search of Tommy Ashe and Thompson for a job was soon ended.  They were taken on as cannery hands—­a “hand” being the term for unskilled laborers as distinguished from fishermen, can machine experts, engineers and the like.  As such they were put to all sorts of tasks, work that usually found them at the day’s end weary, dirty with fish scales and gurry, and more than a little disgusted.  But they were getting three dollars and a half a day, and it was practically clear, which furnished a strong incentive to stick it out as long as the season lasted—­a matter of two more months.

“By that time,” said Tommy Ashe, “we’ll have enough coin to venture into fresh fields.  My word, but we do earn this money.  It’s the nastiness I object to, not the work.  I shan’t forget this first hundred dollars I’ve earned by the sweat of my manly brow.”

In the fullness of time the salmon run came to an end.  The pack being finished the hands were paid off.  In company with half a hundred others, Ashe and Thompson were shipped from the Suchoi Bay Canneries back to Wrangel again.

In Wrangel, before they had been there four hours, Thompson got the offer of work in a pile camp.  He took his prospective job under advisement and hunted up Tommy Ashe.  Tommy dangled his legs over the edge of the bed in their room, and considered the matter.

“No,” he said finally.  “I don’t believe I’ll take it on.  I think I’ll go down to Vancouver.  I’m about two hundred dollars strong, and I don’t really see anything but a poor sort of living in this laboring-man stuff.  I’m going to try some business proposition.  I’ve got a pretty fair acquaintance with motor cars.  I might be able to get in on the selling end of the game, and there is good money in that in the way of commissions.  I know some people there who should be able to show me the ropes.  In a big live seaport like that there must be chances.  Yes, I think I’ll try Vancouver.  You’d better come too, Wes.”

Thompson shook his head.  He knew nothing of business.  He had no trade.  For a time—­until he came face to face with an opportunity he could recognize as such—­he shrank from tackling a city.  He had not quite Tommy’s confidence in himself.

“No,” he said.  “I’d like to—­but I don’t believe I’d make good.  And I don’t want to get in a position where I’d have to be looking for somebody to throw me a life line.  I don’t seem to mind common hard work so much.  I don’t imagine I could jump right into a town and be any better off than I would be here.  When I get a little more money ahead I’ll be tempted to take a chance on a city.  But not yet.”

From this position Tommy’s persuasion failed to move him.  Tommy was earnest enough, and perfectly sincere in promising to see him through.  But that was not what Thompson wanted.  He was determined that in so far as he was able he would make his own way unaided.  He wanted to be through with props forever.  That had become a matter of pride with him.  He went back and told the pile-camp boss that he would report in two days.