This was indeed agreeable praise, and Pierce showed his pleasure.  “Oh no!” he modestly protested.  “I’m just getting broken in.”

“Look out you don’ broke your back,” warned the other.  “Dis Chilkoot she’s bad bizness.  She’s keel a lot of dese sof’ fellers.  Dey get seeck in de back.  You hear ’bout it?”

“Spinal meningitis.  It’s partly from exposure.”

“Dat’s him!  Don’ never carry too moch; don’ be in soch hurry.”

Phillips laughed at this caution.  “Why, we have to hurry,” said he.  “New people are coming all the time and they’ll beat us in if we don’t look out.”

His comrade shrugged.  “Mebbe so; but s’posin’ dey do.  Wat’s de hodds?  She’s beeg countree; dere’s plenty claims.”

“Are there, really?” Phillips’ eyes brightened.  “You’re an old-timer; you’ve been ‘inside.’  Do you mean there’s plenty of gold for all of us?”

“Dere ain’t ‘nuff gold in all de worl’ for some people.”

“I mean is Dawson as rich as they say it is?”

“Um—­m!  I don’ know.”

“Didn’t you get in on the strike?”

“I hear ’bout ‘im, but I’m t’inkin’ ’bout oder t’ings.”

Phillips regarded the speaker curiously.  “That’s funny.  What business are you in?”

“My bizness?  Jus’ livin’.”  The Canadian’s eyes twinkled.  “You don’ savvy, eh—?  Wal, dat’s biccause you’re lak dese oder feller—­ you’re in beeg hurry to be reech.  Me—?” He shrugged his brawny shoulders and smiled cheerily.  “I got plenty tam.  I’m loafer.  I enjoy myse’f—­”

“So do I. For that matter, I’m enjoying myself now.  I think this is all perfectly corking, and I’m having the time of my young life.  Why, just think, over there”—­Pierce waved his hand toward the northward panorama of white peaks and purple valleys—­ “everything is unknown!” His face lit up with some restless desire which the Frenchman appeared to understand, for he nodded seriously.  “Sometimes it scares me a little.”

“Wat you scare’ ’bout, you?”

“Myself, I suppose.  Sometimes I’m afraid I haven’t the stuff in me to last.”

“Dat’s good sign.”  The speaker slipped his arms into his pack-harness and adjusted the tumpline to his forehead preparatory to rising.  “You goin’ mak’ good ‘sourdough’ lak me.  You goin’ love de woods and de hills wen you know ’em.  I can tell.  Wal, I see you bimeby at Wite ’Orse.”

“White Horse?  Is that where you’re going?”

“Yes.  I’m batteau man; I’m goin’ be pilot.”

“Isn’t that pretty dangerous work?  They say those rapids are awful.”

“Sure!  Everybody scare’ to try ’im.  W’en I came up dey pay me fifty dollar for tak’ one boat t’rough.  By gosh!  I never mak’ so moch money—­tree hondred dollar a day.  I’m reech man now.  You lak get reech queeck?  I teach you be pilot.  Swif’ water, beeg noise!  Plenty fun in dat!” The Canadian threw back his head and laughed loudly.  “W’at you say?”