“That isn’t much of a description,” was the retort. “A lot of the fishermen dress roughly, but they’re all right. But we do have some fellows up here who aren’t what I’d call first-class.”
“What do you mean?” asked Mr. Howbridge.
“Well, I mean there’s a bunch camping on one of the islands here. Somebody said they were returned miners from the Klondike, but I don’t know that I believe that.”
“Why, those may be the very men we mean!” cried the lawyer. “One of them claims, or is said to have been, in the Alaskan gold regions. In fact this young man’s father is, or was, a Klondike miner,” went on Mr. Howbridge, indicating Neale. “Maybe these men could tell us something about him. Did you ever hear any of them mention a Mr. O’Neil?” he asked.
The dock tender shook his head.
“Can’t say I did,” he answered. “I don’t have much to do with those men. They’re too rough for me. They may be the ones you mean, and they may not.”
Further questioning elicited no more information, and Neale and Mr. Howbridge had to be content with this.
“But we’ll pay a visit to that island,” decided the lawyer, when its location had been established. “We may get some news of your father in that way.”
“I hope so,” sighed Neale.
Rather than tie up at the dock that night, which would bring them too near the not very pleasant sights and sounds of a waterfront neighborhood, it was decided to anchor the Bluebird out some distance in the lake.