Later in the evening, when the proposals of Mrs. Arnold for the disposal and accommodation of the cousins were laid before them, they were only too pleased to avail themselves of the offered hospitality.
John and Charles Barton, whose ages were respectively twenty-three and twenty-seven years, had worked on a small farm which their father rented until the old man died, which event happened three or four years prior to the present period. For the past three years they had continued it on their own account, but, failing to make it pay, they had sold everything off and resolved to emigrate. It was just about this time that the Klondyke successes began to be all the talk, and so taken were they with the marvellous stories related of that region that they determined to try their fortune on its inhospitable shores. Their purses were not too well lined, nor their prospects sufficiently promising, to render them independent of any little help or assistance they might meet with from friends on their way.
"What port are you bound for, Jack?" inquired Arnold.
"We go to Montreal, and thence by Canadian and Pacific line across the American Continent to San Francisco."
"Isn't that the longest way there?" asked Arnold.
"That is so; but then it is by far the easier. All accounts are pretty unanimous in depicting not only the danger but the difficulties of the so-called Chilcoot Pass."
"But what about the White Pass?"
"That appears to be the worst of the three, since it leads through a very rough country, over steep hills, through swift streams, and over a pass which, although said to be one thousand feet lower than the Chilcoot, is declared by surveyors to be two hundred feet higher. And as it is longer and more difficult we have thought it best to take the river route."
"What is the difference in the matter of time over—say the Chilcoot route?"
"The time of starting may be somewhat later, as we shall have to wait until it is known that the navigation of the Yukon River is opened."