The Trail of 98 by Robert W Service Read Free Book Online Page A

professor, plumb-full of book dope on the Yukon. He's Mister Wise
Mike. He knows it all. Hear his monologue on 'How It Should Be Done.' He's going
to live on deck to inure himself to the rigours of the Arctic climate. Works
with a pair of spring dumb-bells to get up his muscle so's he can shovel out the
nuggets."
    Our eyes roved round from group to group, picking out characteristic
figures.
    "See that big bleached-blond Englishman? Came over with me on the Pullman
from New York. 'Awfully bored, don't you know.' When we got to 'Frisco, he says
to me: 'Thank God, old chappie, the worst part of the journey's over.' Then
there'sRomulus and Remus,
the twins, strapping young fellows. Only way I know them apart is one laces his
boots tight, the other slack. They think the world of each other."
    He swung around to where Salvation Jim was talking to two men.
    "There's a pair of winners. I put my money on them. Nothing on earth can stop
those fellows, native-born Americans, all grit and get-up. See that tall one
smoking a cigar and looking at the women? He's an athlete. Name's Mervin; all
whipcord and whalebone; springy as a bent bow. He's a type of the Swift. He's
bound to get there. See the other. Hewson's his name; solid as a tower; muscled
like a bear; built from the ground up. He represents the Strong. Look at the
grim, determined face of him. You can't down a man like that."
    He indicated another group.
    "Now there's three birds of prey. Bullhammer, Marks and Mosher. The big,
pig-eyed heavy-jowled one is Bullhammer. He's in the saloon business. The
middle-sized one in the plug hat is Marks. See his oily, yellow face dotted with
pimples. He's a phoney piece of work; calls himself a mining broker. The third's
Jake Mosher. He's an out-and-out gambler, a sure-thing man, once was a
parson."
    I looked again. Mosher had just taken off his hat. His high-domed head was of
monumental baldness, his eyes close-set and crafty, his nose negligible.The rest of his face was
mostly beard. It grew black as the Pit to near the bulge of his stomach, and
seemed to have drained his scalp in its rank luxuriance. Across the deck came
the rich, oily tones of his voice.
    "A bad-looking bunch," I said.
    "Yes, there's heaps like them on board. There's a crowd of dance-hall girls
going up, and the usual following of parasites. Look at that Halfbreed. There's
a man for the country now, part Scotch, part Indian; the quietest man on the
boat; light, but tough as wire nails."
    I saw a lean, bright-eyed brown man with flat features, smoking a
cigarette.
    "Say! Just get next to those two Jews, Mike and Rebecca Winklestein. They're
going to open up a sporty restaurant."
    The man was a small bandy-legged creature, with eyes that squinted, a
complexion like ham fat and waxed moustaches. But it was the woman who seized my
attention. Never did I see such a strapping Amazon, six foot if an inch, and
massive in proportion. She was handsome too, in a swarthy way, though near at
hand her face was sensuous and bold. Yet she had a suave, flattering manner and
a coarse wit that captured the crowd. Dangerous, unscrupulous and cruel, I
thought; a man-woman, a shrew, a termagant!
    But I was growing weary of the crowd and longed to go below. I was no longer
interested, yet the voice of the Prodigal droned in my ear.
    "There's an old man and
his granddaughter, relatives of the Winklesteins, I believe. I think the old
fellow's got a screw loose. Handsome old boy, though; looks like a Hebrew
prophet out of a job. Comes from Poland. Speaks Yiddish or some such jargon;
Only English he knows is 'Klondike, Klondike.' The girl looks heartbroken, poor
little beggar."
    "Poor little beggar!" I heard the words indeed, but my mind was far away. To
the devil with Polish Jews and their granddaughters. I wished the Prodigal would
leave me to my own thoughts, thoughts of my Highland home and my dear ones. But
no! he persisted:
    "You're not listening to