She laid the ten cents on the counter grudgingly.
The man looked at it and grinned again.
"Them things don't go here," said he. "It's fifty cents."
There was a silence. I found my handkerchief and laughed into it, wishing I had taken a second glass.
"Oh, I see," said she, slowly and sweetly, as a half-dollar slid lingering down her fingers to the counter. "For the spoons. They were worth it."
It was two o'clock before we could leave our windows that night. It was not dark, not even dusk. A kind of blue-white light lay over the town and valley, deepening toward the hills. In the air was that delicious quality which charms the senses like perfumes. Only to breathe it in was a drowsy, languorous joy. At White Horse one opens the magic, invisible gate and passes into the enchanted land of Forgetfulness—and the gate swings shut behind one.
Home and friends seem far away. If every soul that one loves were at death's door, one could not get home in time to say farewell—so why not banish care and enjoy each hour as it comes?
This is the same reckless spirit which, greatly intensified, possessed desperate men when they went to the Klondike ten years ago. There was no telegraph, then, and mails were carried in only once or twice a year. Letters were lost. Men did not hear from their wives, and, discouraged and disheartened, decided that the women had died or had forgotten; so they went the way of the country, and it often came to pass that Heartbreak Trail led to the Land of Heartbreak.
In the morning we learned that the boat for Dawson was not yet "in," and, even if it should arrive during the day,—which seemed to be as uncertain as the opening of the river in spring,—would not leave until some time during the night; so at nine o'clock we took the Skaguay train for the Grand Canyon.
One "oldest" resident of White Horse told us that it was only a mile to the canyon; another oldest one, that it was four miles; still another, that it was five; all agreed that we should take the train out and walk back.