"Same excuse as you."
The Colonel shook his head.
"Exactly," maintained the Boy. "Tired of towns and desk-work, and—and—" The Boy shifted about on his wooden stool, and held up his hands to the reviving blaze. "Life owes us steady fellows one year of freedom, anyhow—one year to make ducks and drakes of. Besides, we've all come to make our fortunes. Doesn't every mother's son of us mean to find a gold-mine in the spring when we get to the Klondyke—eh?" And he laughed again, and presently he yawned, and tumbled back into his bunk. But he put his head out in a moment. "Aren't you going to bed?"
"Yes." The Colonel stood up.
"Did you know Father Wills went by, last night, when those fellows began to row about getting out the whisky?"
"No."
"He says there's another stampede on."
"Where to?"
"Koyukuk this time."
"Why didn't he come in?"