A strange Hotel.
We landed at a rough wharf at the mouth of the wide river, where a few shanties and a plank warehouse stood just in front of a forest of pine-trees, the stumps, five or six feet high, of many that had been cut down to make room for the tiny settlement, still standing up and forming a graceful curve all round from the ground to the place where the marks of the axe still looked white and yellowish red.
Our chests were carried out on to the shaky platform in front of the shanties, one of which was dignified by the title of hotel, and to Esau’s great disgust, Gunson’s two chests and a long wooden case were set down close to them. Then three men who had been passengers landed, and lastly the little Chinaman, who had hung back for some time, till the steamer was about to start again, sprang quickly on to the wharf, with his luggage hanging to one crooked finger. His movements were quickened by the big fellow Gully, who, as soon as he caught sight of him, made a rush and then leaned over the gangway, uttering a roar like that of some huge beast of prey. This done he shouted to us.
“Wait a bit,” he said. “We shall run again one another some day. Then we’ll all have another grip—”
“With all my heart,” said Gunson, in a loud voice; “but I should have thought you had had enough of my manners and custom’s.”
We stood waiting till the boat had gone some distance, and then, as the three men who had landed had disappeared, and the Chinaman was seated on a log at a short distance from where we stood, I turned to Gunson.
“Where does the town lie?” I asked.
“What town?” he said, smiling.
“The one at the mouth of the river.”
“Oh, there is one over yonder,” he said, “but it is not much better than this, and as this was the handiest for you, I thought you had better stop here.”