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a churn, showed across the bottom.

Hootchinoo Bill swallowed. Never in his life had he dreamed of so
rich a test-pan.

"Kind of thick, my friend," he said huskily. "How much might you
reckon that-all to be?"

Ans Handerson did not look up as he replied, "Ay tank fafty
ounces."

"You must be scrumptious rich, then, eh?"
Still Ans Handerson kept his head down, absorbed in putting in the

fine touches which wash out the last particles of dross, though he
answered, "Ay tank Ay ban wort' five hundred t'ousand dollar."

"Gosh!" said Hootchinoo Bill, and he said it reverently.
"Yes, Bill, gosh!" said Kink Mitchell; and they went out softly and

closed the door.
THE ONE THOUSAND DOZEN

David Rasmunsen was a hustler, and, like many a greater man, a man
of the one idea. Wherefore, when the clarion call of the North

rang on his ear, he conceived an adventure in eggs and bent all his
energy to its achievement. He figured briefly and to the point,

and the adventure became iridescent-hued, splendid. That eggs
would sell at Dawson for five dollars a dozen was a safe working

premise. Whence it was incontrovertible that one thousand dozen
would bring, in the Golden Metropolis, five thousand dollars.

On the other hand, expense was to be considered, and he considered
it well, for he was a careful man, keenly practical, with a hard

head and a heart that imagination never warmed. At fifteen cents a
dozen, the initial cost of his thousand dozen would be one hundred

and fifty dollars, a mere bagatelle in face of the enormous profit.
And suppose, just suppose, to be wildly extravagant for once, that

transportation for himself and eggs should run up eight hundred and
fifty more; he would still have four thousand clear cash and clean

when the last egg was disposed of and the last dust had rippled
into his sack

"You see, Alma,"--he figured it over with his wife, the cosy
dining-room submerged in a sea of maps, government surveys, guide-

books, and Alaskan itineraries,--"you see, expenses don't really
begin till you make Dyea--fifty dollars'll cover it with a first-

class passage thrown in. Now from Dyea to Lake Linderman, Indian
packers take your goods over for twelve cents a pound, twelve

dollars a hundred, or one hundred and twenty dollars a thousand.
Say I have fifteen hundred pounds, it'll cost one hundred and

eighty dollars--call it two hundred and be safe. I am creditably
informed by a Klondiker just come out that I can buy a boat for

three hundred. But the same man says I'm sure to get a couple of
passengers for one hundred and fifty each, which will give me the

boat for nothing, and, further, they can help me manage it. And .
. . that's all; I put my eggs ashore from the boat at Dawson. Now

let me see how much is that?"
"Fifty dollars from San Francisco to Dyea, two hundred from Dyea to

Linderman, passengers pay for the boat--two hundred and fifty all
told," she summed up swiftly.

"And a hundred for my clothes and personal outfit," he went on
happily; "that leaves a margin of five hundred for emergencies.

And what possible emergencies can arise?"
Alma shrugged her shoulders and elevated her brows. If that vast

Northland was capable of swallowing up a man and a thousand dozen
eggs, surely there was room and to spare for whatever else he might

happen to possess. So she thought, but she said nothing. She knew
David Rasmunsen too well to say anything.

"Doubling the time because of chance delays, I should make the trip
in two months. Think of it, Alma! Four thousand in two months!

Beats the paltry hundred a month I'm getting now. Why, we'll build
further out where we'll have more space, gas in every room, and a

view, and the rent of the cottage'll pay taxes, insurance, and
water, and leave something over. And then there's always the

chance of my striking it and coming out a millionaire. Now tell
me, Alma, don't you think I'm very moderate?"

And Alma could hardly think otherwise. Besides, had not her own
cousin,--though a remote and distant one to be sure, the black

sheep, the harum-scarum, the ne'er-do-well,--had not he come down
out of that weird North country with a hundred thousand in yellow

dust, to say nothing of a half-ownership in the hole from which it
came?

David Rasmunsen's grocer was surprised when he found him weighing
eggs in the scales at the end of the counter, and Rasmunsen himself

was more surprised when he found that a dozen eggs weighed a pound
and a half--fifteen hundred pounds for his thousand dozen! There

would be no weight left for his clothes, blankets, and cooking
utensils, to say nothing of the grub he must necessarilyconsume by

the way. His calculations were all thrown out, and he was just
proceeding to recast them when he hit upon the idea of weighing

small eggs. "For whether they be large or small, a dozen eggs is a
dozen eggs," he observed sagely to himself; and a dozen small ones

he found to weigh but a pound and a quarter. Thereat the city of
San Francisco was overrun by anxious-eyed emissaries, and

commission houses and dairy associations were startled by a sudden
demand for eggs running not more than twenty ounces to the dozen.

Rasmunsen mortgaged the little cottage for a thousand dollars,
arranged for his wife to make a prolonged stay among her own

people, threw up his job, and started North. To keep within his
schedule he compromised on a second-class passage, which, because

of the rush, was worse than steerage; and in the late summer, a
pale and wabbly man, he disembarked with his eggs on the Dyea

beach. But it did not take him long to recover his land legs and
appetite. His first interview with the Chilkoot packers

straightened him up and stiffened his backbone. Forty cents a
pound they demanded for the twenty-eight-mile portage, and while he

caught his breath and swallowed, the price went up to forty-three.
Fifteen husky Indians put the straps on his packs at forty-five,

but took them off at an offer of forty-seven from a Skaguay Croesus
in dirty shirt and raggedoveralls who had lost his horses on the

White Pass trail and was now making a last desperate drive at the
country by way of Chilkoot.

But Rasmunsen was clean grit, and at fifty cents found takers, who,
two days later, set his eggs down intact at Linderman. But fifty

cents a pound is a thousand dollars a ton, and his fifteen hundred
pounds had exhausted his emergency fund and left him stranded at

the Tantalus point where each day he saw the fresh-whipsawed boats
departing for Dawson. Further, a great anxiety brooded over the

camp where the boats were built. Men worked frantically, early and
late, at the height of their endurance, caulking, nailing, and

pitching in a frenzy of haste for which adequateexplanation was
not far to seek. Each day the snow-line crept farther down the

bleak, rock-shouldered peaks, and gale followed gale, with sleet
and slush and snow, and in the eddies and quiet places young ice

formed and thickened through the fleeting hours. And each morn,
toil-stiffened men turned wan faces across the lake to see if the

freeze-up had come. For the freeze-up heralded the death of their
hope--the hope that they would be floating down the swift river ere

navigation closed on the chain of lakes.
To harrow Rasmunsen's soul further, he discovered three competitors

in the egg business. It was true that one, a little German, had
gone broke and was himself forlornly back-tripping the last pack of

the portage; but the other two had boats nearly completed, and were
daily supplicating the god of merchants and traders to stay the

iron hand of winter for just another day. But the iron hand closed
down over the land. Men were being frozen in the blizzard which

swept Chilkoot, and Rasmunsen frosted his toes ere he was aware.
He found a chance to go passenger with his freight in a boat just

shoving off through the rubble, but two hundred hard cash, was
required, and he had no money.

"Ay tank you yust wait one leedle w'ile," said the Swedish boat-
builder, who had struck his Klondike right there and was wise

enough to know it--"one leedle w'ile und I make you a tam fine
skiff boat, sure Pete."

With this unpledged word to go on, Rasmunsen hit the back trail to
Crater Lake, where he fell in with two press correspondents whose

tangled baggage was strewn from Stone House, over across the Pass,
and as far as Happy Camp.

"Yes," he said with consequence. "I've a thousand dozen eggs at
Linderman, and my boat's just about got the last seam caulked.

Consider myself in luck to get it. Boats are at a premium, you
know, and none to be had."

Whereupon and almost with bodilyviolence the correspondents
clamoured to go with him, fluttered greenbacks before his eyes, and

spilled yellow twenties from hand to hand. He could not hear of
it, but they over-persuaded him, and he reluctantly consented to

take them at three hundred apiece. Also they pressed upon him the
passage money in advance. And while they wrote to their respective

journals concerning the Good Samaritan with the thousand dozen
eggs, the Good Samaritan was hurrying back to the Swede at

Linderman.
"Here, you! Gimme that boat!" was his salutation, his hand

jingling the correspondents' gold pieces and his eyes hungrily bent
upon the finished craft.

The Swede regarded him stolidly and shook his head.
"How much is the other fellow paying? Three hundred? Well, here's

four. Take it."
He tried to press it upon him, but the man backed away.

"Ay tank not. Ay say him get der skiff boat. You yust wait--"
'Here's six hundred. Last call. Take it or leave it. Tell 'm

it's a mistake.'
The Swede wavered. "Ay tank yes," he finally said, and the last

Rasmunsen saw of him his vocabulary was going to wreck in a vain
effort to explain the mistake to the other fellows.

The German slipped and broke his ankle on the steep hogback above
Deep Lake, sold out his stock for a dollar a dozen, and with the

proceeds hired Indian packers to carry him back to Dyea. But on
the morning Rasmunsen shoved off with his correspondents, his two

rivals followed suit.
'How many you got?" one of them, a lean little New Englander,

called out.
"One thousand dozen," Rasmunsen answered proudly.

"Huh! I'll go you even stakes I beat you in with my eight
hundred."

The correspondents offered to lend him the money; but Rasmunsen
declined, and the Yankee closed with the remaining rival, a brawny

son of the sea and sailor of ships and things, who promised to show
them all a wrinkle or two when it came to cracking on. And crack

on he did, with a large tarpaulin square-sail which pressed the bow
half under at every jump. He was the first to run out of

Linderman, but, disdaining the portage, piled his loaded boat on
the rocks in the boiling rapids. Rasmunsen and the Yankee, who

likewise had two passengers, portaged across on their backs and
then lined their empty boats down through the bad water to Bennett.

Bennett was a twenty-five-mile lake, narrow and deep, a funnel
between the mountains through which storms ever romped. Rasmunsen

camped on the sand-pit at its head, where were many men and boats
bound north in the teeth of the Arctic winter. He awoke in the

morning to find a piping gale from the south, which caught the
chill from the whited peaks and glacial valleys and blew as cold as

north wind ever blew. But it was fair, and he also found the
Yankee staggering past the first bold headland with all sail set.

Boat after boat was getting under way, and the correspondents fell
to with enthusiasm.

"We'll catch him before Cariboo Crossing," they assured Rasmunsen,
as they ran up the sail and the Alma took the first icy spray over

her bow.
Now Rasmunsen all his life had been prone to cowardice on water,

but he clung to the kicking steering-oar with set face and
determined jaw. His thousand dozen were there in the boat before



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