unlucky—but, he never quit. When his diggin’s didn’t pan out he’d jest spit on his hands an’ sink a new shaft. An’ he was never too busy to lend a hand when folks was in trouble. He never made no strike. But here in the North, kid, men will remember Sam Morgan when most of them that’s cleaned up their millions will be fergot.”
“Ye said a mouthful then, Dan!” spoke Rip Wade, a man with a shirt of multi-coloured checks. “An’ now, kid, s’posin’ ye tell us where ye’re headin’. The jam’s busted an’ if ye’re goin’ down river they’s room in my scow fer yer outfit. An’ you, too, Dan—’less ’en ye’d ruther ride a ice-cake.”
“I’m hitting for Dawson,” answered Connie. “There is a man—a little weasel-faced man, named Squigg”
“Squigg!” exclaimed Sergeant McKeever. “So he’s showed up again, has he?”
“Do you know him?” asked the boy.
“Know him! You bet your boots, I know him—ordered him out of the territory back in ’98. Drifted over into Alaska, somewhere, an’ if he had any sense he’d stayed there.”
“Crossed the river two days ago,” volunteered
