Klondike Nuggets, and How Two Boys Secured Them

by Edward Sylvester Ellis

As he spoke he darted a glance at Hardman, who was sitting a little back from the fire, also smoking, but glum and silent. The boys wondered why Jeff should make these pointed references, when he had never hinted anything of the kind before, but the old miner had a purpose in mind. While not seeming to pay any special attention to Hardman, he had studied him closely for the past few days, and felt little doubt that he was planning mischief. The words, therefore, that Jeff uttered were meant as a warning to the rogue of what he might expect if he attempted any crooked work.

No further reference was made to the unpleasant subject, although Jeff and Tim chaffed each other for a long time, even after the boys had wrapped themselves in their blankets and lain down to sleep. No watch was set, as would have been the case had they been journeying through a wild part of their own country, for there was nothing to be feared from wild animals or Indians. The only being whom Jeff and the boys distrusted was a member of their own company, and they did not believe he would do anything wrong until after the party had secured something worth the risk on his part.

Deprived of many of the comforts of home and a mother's care, it did not take the boys long, under the tutelage of the older ones, to attend to their own wants. Roswell and Frank soon learned how to sew on a button and do the mending which their garments occasionally required. They washed their clothing and kept themselves in better form than do many men when placed in a similar situation.

With the weather growing more summery and hardly a bit of ice in the river, the raft glided down the Upper Yukon. Ninety-eight miles from the head of the Yukon, the craft passed the mouth of the Milk River, and in this case the party saw the appropriateness of the name, for its water has a perceptible whitish color.

A goodly distance remained to be passed, for it was ten miles to Stewart River, and twenty-five more to Fort Ogilvie, where they spent the night. They were now nearing their journey's end, and all showed a peculiar agitation, such as is natural when we feel ourselves close upon the solution of a problem that has baffled us for a long time.

One form of this emotion was the impatience to get forward faster than before. There was nothing of the feeling when leaving Seattle or Juneau or Dyea, nor did they experience it to any degree while toiling through the hundreds of miles from lake to lake and down the upper waters of the streams which help to form the Yukon.

Roswell and Frank were grateful for one blessed fact—they were stronger and in more rugged health than ever in their lives. When making their way through the passes and helping to drag the sleds, they felt more than once like giving up and turning back, though neither would have confessed it; but now they were hopeful, buoyant, and eager. They had sent the last letter which they expected to write home for a long time upon leaving Dyea, where they bade good-by to civilization.

The afternoon was young when the raft drifted into a portion of the Yukon which expanded into a width of two miles, where it was joined by another large stream. On the eastern shore loomed a straggling town of considerable proportions.

"Tim," said Frank, suspecting the truth, "what place is that?"

"Frinds," replied Tim, vainly trying to conceal his agitation, "that town is Dawson City, and the river flowing into ours is the Klondike. Ye have raiched the goold counthry, which, being the same, I rispictfully asks ye all to jine mesilf in letting out a hurrah which will make the town trimble and the payple open their eyes so wide that they won't git them shet agin for a wake to come. Are ye riddy? Altogither!"