While Alex was telling his excited chums of the wonderful discovery, the Kid walked off by himself buried in thought, nor did he return until dark. Over the supper table he laid his conclusion before them.

“It’s big—the biggest thing that has ever happened on the Yukon. It’s too big for us to handle. It needs wharfs, staging, elevators, ships and a whole lot of other things. Likely a million dollars will have to be spent before the first load of copper can be got out of that mountain. Now our claims will not cover one-tenth of that copper belt, and my plan would be to get down to Nome as quick as I could and file our claims on the records. Then, pick out a few old timers I could trust and have them file claims on the balance of the belt, and then all combine to sell out to some big concern that has got the money to get out the goods. I’m sorry,” he said, regretfully, “but you boys will not get your money at once. You can take up a claim at eighteen years of age but you can’t sell until you’re twenty-one. If you care to trust me, however, I’ll see that your assessment work is kept up and your claims fully protected. Three years is not a long time to wait and you’ll all be rich men before you know it.”

It was a little disappointing to the boys to find that they were not to get the money for their claims immediately, but Clay’s reply gave them food for thought.

“I like that idea of not getting our money until we are twenty-one,” he said. “We are too young yet for wealth. It would likely turn our heads and make fools of us.”

Next morning the Yukon Kid started before day, with the two teams of dogs, for Nome, and a week later the river, clear of ice, the Rambler drove down to St. Michael’s to be hoisted aboard the self-same vessel the boys had come upon.

Did they get back home all right? Of course they did; Rambler, Captain Joe, Abe and all the rest.

And say, wasn’t it fine that Ike sold that cargo of furs in Seattle for $12,000, $2,000 more than they hoped to get, you’ll remember.

I believe, boys, if you could just stroll out on the little pier in the South Branch some evening and listen softly at the Rambler’s window, you’d hear those boys—yes, those self-same boys—planning another long trip.

We hope they won’t forget to send us an account of the trip if they so decide. Until that time arrives we will say good-bye.

THE END