A number of Indians were about: their sole employment seemed to be to sit on stumps and logs, smoke and chew tobacco, and gaze stolidly at us. They were dressed just like the white men.
As for the few white men, they gathered round us, eyed us and our outfit, but said nothing. A more miserable, unhappy, low-spirited set of men I had never before come across.
Well, we were landed at Skagway, and questioned the inhabitants. It was not easy to obtain information. "Where is the trail to the White Pass? How could we get to it? What means of transport were there?" Those were the questions we made it plain that we desired to have answered.
One would have supposed that these people could have enlightened us; but no—their advice and information was so vague that we might have taken them for new arrivals, like ourselves. But that they were old hands was plain, for they argued amongst themselves, entered into long yarns about what this and that man had experienced, what Slim Jim thought, and Blear-eyed Scottie said—we could make nothing of them. Some advised us to go by canoe, which was chaff; and others declared that was ridiculous—by the trail was the only way. "What trail? Which is it?" we begged to be informed. "Oh! just up the river a piece," was all we could arrive at.
No doubt these men, regarding us as "tenderfeet," took pleasure, as usual, in mystifying us; and it was our policy not to undeceive them. I was the usual spokesman.
It must be quite clearly understood that the rush to the Klondyke had not begun then. It was known, undoubtedly, that there was much gold up country, and every white man there was after it, so that if it had been guessed that Meade had been up already, the fact of his returning with the ample outfit we possessed would have convinced them that he had been successful, and we should have been followed and our secret discovered.
It was ten o'clock at night then, but not really dark. We were perplexed. These loafers gradually dispersed, and only one man hung behind, who had been silent hitherto. When we were alone with him he became communicative. We knew, directly he spoke, that he was an Englishman of a better sort, and he recognised what we were.
Said he, "Let me advise you: get all your stuff piled up yonder; put up your tent and turn in; in the morning you'll find all easy. There's a man here who bosses everything—white folks and Indians; he's a Yankee, true enough, but a decent fellow; he keeps a sort of a boarding-house, and has a store; he's a fur-buyer, a trader, and a packer; he'll straighten things out for you."
Accordingly, in the morning, after we had fed, Indians and loafers gathered around again, and for a bit it looked as if the difficulty would continue; but shortly our English friend, who was working at the wharf building, and whose sobriquet, we found, was "Colney Hatch," usually shortened to "Coney" (he explained that he foolishly one day let it be known that that famous institution was near his home in England), well, this man came to us, and took us with him to Boss Parkinson's—the man he had mentioned.
We found the boss was certainly a "live" man: in five minutes he had cleared all up. He shook hands heartily, asked us if we had any money, where we proposed to go, with a few other questions.