“Dead certain.”
The giant nodded and strode out on seven-league boots. A moment later Hildegarde had laid $125 down before the alcohol-reeking, red-eyed, nervous agent, who seemed to feel called on to explain that he’d been up all night “on the water front, seeing off the Huron.” While he made out the voucher, huskily he congratulated the young lady that an intending passenger by this best of all ships had had a fit on the water front the night before, and was probably dying now “over at the Rainier Grand.” His wife had been in half an hour ago about reselling the ticket. And that was it. Number twenty-one. He handed Hildegarde the slip of gray-blue paper which transferred to her the dying man’s right to a first-class berth on Hankin & Company’s Steamer Congress, sailing from Seattle to Cape Nome on the 19th of May.
Now for a decision amongst the contending outfitters and provision dealers.
She had studied well the prospectuses, the “folders” and the hand-books. She had made notes and lists. She knew she must provide herself with:
“A tent and two pair dark blue Hudson Bay blankets.
“Water boots.
“Several yards stout netting.
“Leather gaiters.
“Cowboy’s hat.
“Canvas bag, with shoulder strap.