The Race for Number Three (a.k.a. The Race for Number One)
"Huh! Get on to the glad rags!"
Shorty surveyed his partner with simulated disapproval, and Smoke, vainly attempting to rub the wrinkles out of the pair of trousers he had just put on, was irritated.
"They sure fit you close for a second-hand buy," Shorty went on. "What
was the tax?"
"One hundred and fifty for the suit," Smoke answered. "The man was
nearly my own size. I thought it was remarkably reasonable. What are
you kicking about?"
"Who? Me? Oh, nothin'. I was just thinkin' it was goin' some for a
meat-eater that hit Dawson in an ice-jam, with no grub, one suit of
underclothes, a pair of mangy moccasins, an' overalls that looked like
they'd been through the wreck of the Hesperus. Pretty gay front, pardner. Pretty gay front. Say--?"
"What do you want now?" Smoke demanded testily.
"What's her name?"
"There isn't any her, my friend. I'm to have dinner at Colonel
Bowie's, if you want to know. The trouble with you, Shorty, is you're
envious because I'm going into high society and you're not invited."
"Ain't you some late?" Shorty queried with concern.
"What do you mean?"
"For dinner. They'll be eatin' supper when you get there."
Smoke was about to explain with crudely elaborate sarcasm when he
caught the twinkle in the other's eye. He went on dressing, with
fingers that had lost their deftness, tying a Windsor tie in a
bow-knot at the throat of his soft cotton shirt.
"Wisht I hadn't sent all my starched shirts to the laundry," Shorty
murmured sympathetically. "I might 'a' fitted you out."
By this time Smoke was straining at a pair of shoes. The woollen
socks were too thick to go into them. He looked appealingly at
Shorty, who shook his head.
"Nope. If I had thin ones I wouldn't lend 'em to you. Back to the
moccasins, pardner. You'd sure freeze your toes in skimpy-fangled
gear like that."
"I paid fifteen dollars for them, second hand," Smoke lamented.
"I reckon they won't be a man not in moccasins."
"But there are to be women, Shorty. I'm going to sit down and eat
with real live women--Mrs. Bowie, and several others, so the Colonel
told me."
"Well, moccasins won't spoil their appetite none," was Shorty's
comment. "Wonder what the Colonel wants with you?"
"I don't know, unless he's heard about my finding Surprise Lake. It
will take a fortune to drain it, and the Guggenheims are out for
investment."
"Reckon that's it. That's right, stick to the moccasins. Gee! That
coat is sure wrinkled, an' it fits you a mite too swift. Just peck
around at your vittles. If you eat hearty you'll bust through. An' if
them women folks gets to droppin' handkerchiefs, just let 'em lay. Don't do any pickin' up. Whatever you do, don't."
As became a high-salaried expert and the representative of the great
house of Guggenheim, Colonel Bowie lived in one of the most
magnificent cabins in Dawson. Of squared logs, hand-hewn, it was two
stories high, and of such extravagant proportions that it boasted a
big living room that was used for a living room and for nothing else.
Here were big bear-skins on the rough board floor, and on the walls
horns of moose and caribou. Here roared an open fireplace and a big
wood-burning stove. And here Smoke met the social elect of
Dawson--not the mere pick-handle millionaires, but the ultra-cream of
a mining city whose population had been recruited from all the
world--men like Warburton Jones, the explorer and writer; Captain
Consadine of the Mounted Police; Haskell, Gold Commissioner of the
Northwest Territory; and Baron Von Schroeder, an emperor's favourite
with an international duelling reputation.
And here, dazzling in evening gown, he met Joy Gastell, whom hitherto
he had encountered only on trail, befurred and moccasined. At dinner
he found himself beside her.
"I feel like a fish out of water," he confessed. "All you folks are
so real grand you know. Besides, I never dreamed such Oriental luxury
existed in the Klondike. Look at Von Schroeder there. He's actually
got a dinner jacket, and Consadine's got a starched shirt. I noticed
he wore moccasins just the same. How do you like MY outfit?"
He moved his shoulders about as if preening himself for Joy's
approval.