On the following morning Laure asked Morris Best for a bottle of whisky.  The evenings were growing cold and some of the girls needed a stimulant while camp was being pitched, she explained.  The bottle she gave to Pierce, with a request to stow it in his baggage for safekeeping, and that night when they landed, cramped and chilly, she prevailed upon him to open it and to drink.  The experiment worked.  Laure began to understand that when Pierce Phillips’ blood flowed warmly, when he was artificially exhilarated, then he saw her with the eyes of a lover.  It was not a flattering discovery, but the girl contented herself, for by now she was desperate enough to snatch at straws.  Thenceforth she counted upon strong drink as her ally.

The closing scenes of the great autumn stampede to Dawson were picturesque, for the rushing river was crowded with boats all racing with one another.  ’Neath lowering skies, past ghostly shores seen dimly through a tenuous curtain of sifting snowflakes, swept these craft; they went by ones and by twos, in groups and in flotillas; hourly the swirling current bore them along, and as the miles grew steadily less the spirits of the crews mounted.  Loud laughter, songs, yells of greeting and encouragement, ran back and forth; a triumphant joyfulness, a Jovian mirth, animated these men of brawn, for they had met the North and they had bested her.  Restraint had dropped away by now, and they reveled in a new-found freedom.  There was license in the air, for Adventure was afoot and the Unknown beckoned.

Urged on by oar and sweep, propelled by favoring breezes, the Argonauts pressed forward exultantly.  At night their roaring camp-fires winked at one another like beacon lights along some friendly channel.  Unrolling before them was an endless panorama of spruce and birch and cottonwood, of high hills white with snow, of unexplored valleys dark with promise.  As the Yukon increased in volume it became muddy, singing a low, hissing song, as if the falling particles of snow melted on its surface and turned to steam.

Out of all the traffic that flowed past the dance-hall party, among all the boats they overhauled and left behind, Pierce Phillips nowhere recognized the Countess Courteau’s outfit.  Whether she was ahead or whether they had outdistanced her he did not know and inquiry rewarded him with no hint.

During this journey a significant change gradually came over the young man.  Familiarity, a certain intimacy with his companions, taught him much, and in time he forgot to look upon them as pariahs.  Best, for instance, proved to be an irritable but good-hearted little Hebrew; he developed a genuine fondness for Pierce, which he took every occasion to show, and Pierce grew to like him.  The girls, too, opened their hearts and made him feel their friendship.  For the most part they were warm, impulsive creatures, and Pierce was amazed to discover how little they differed from the girls he had known at home.  Among their faults he discovered unusual traits of character; there was not a little kindliness, generosity, and of course much cheerfulness.  They were free-handed with what they had; they were ready with a smile, a word of encouragement or of sympathy; they were absurdly grateful, too, for the smallest favor or the least act of kindness.  Moreover, they behaved themselves extremely well.