This country, from Athabasca Landing to the Peace River, is commonly described as "Jim's Country," and if you travel it over you will understand the reason.
Who supports the stopping-places on the river? Jim's freighters.
Who cuts the wood on the bank? Jim's Indians.
Who hauls the passengers, the freight, and the mail-bags over the portage? Jim's wagoners.
Who owns the ships on the Athabasca and the Slave? Why, Jim himself.
How Jim can look his pay-sheet in the eye every fortnight and keep laughing, is, to my thinking, the miracle of the North. But then it must be borne in mind that I have never seen Jim's ledger-book, and, as yet, no one else has except his accountants and bankers.
The dream of Jim's life has been to lay bare the wealth of the North, for the good of the North, and every day he is making his dream come true.
But I was telling you about Soto Landing. The freight shed here is in charge of a bachelor whose wardrobe is drying audaciously on the trees. He says he ties his clothes together with a rope and lets the current of the river wash them, but I think this statement is what Montaigne would describe as "A shameless and solemne lie."
He asks me how long I have been out from Ireland and I tell him three years. "What was the charge!" he pursues.
"Stealing the crown jewels," I reply.