They contained only a brief notice of the assault on Ike, probably given out by the ambulance surgeon, but flaring across on the first front page was:
“Chicago’s open season for hold-ups and murders has begun.” Then below the head lines followed.
“Mr. Austin, a rather prominent retail merchant, was on his way home last night when he was attacked by foot-pads who darted out on him from the old lumber yard on L street. Mr. Austin had been unable to get to the bank during the day and carried in a wallet in his breast pocket, over $1,000. While one man held him and choked him, the other relieved him of his money, and of the fat wallet. Then they tripped him up and took to their heels, escaping, as there are no policemen and few pedestrians on this lonely street. Mr. Austin describes the two as being very big, roughly clothed men, one of them having a red scar on one cheek. Of course they got away. Even if Mr. Austin had been able to obtain a good photograph of each it is doubtful if our bone-headed police would recognize the men if they accidentally met them.”
Just then came the rumble of a train coming down the dock. Clay pushed his head out of the window. “It’s our train,” he shouted. “Take those dishes off the table and set the pots off the stove. She may list a bit when they go to hoist her.”
A huge crane swung slowly over the Rambler and from it a huge hook attached to a chain was gently lowered. The boys quickly caught the hook in the sling. The chain slowly tightened and the Rambler was lifted bodily and lowered gently onto a flat car, where she was quickly shored up with timbers to keep her on an even keel.
It was only a few minutes before the train backed off the docks, switched onto the main track and began to crawl slowly out of the dingy city.
“Hurrah!” cried Alex in his joy. “We are off, off at last.” And the others joined him in his jubilation.
CHAPTER VII
THE GOLD FEVER
Four travel-weary looking boys stood on the hurricane deck of the steamer Arctic just landed at St. Michael’s Island which lies somewhat below the Arctic circle and close to the mouth of the great river Yukon. We spoke of the boys as standing, but that was incorrect, rather they were sitting, with legs swinging, on the deck of the motor boat Rambler, looking down at the strange scene going on below them. From one gang plank the Arctic’s passengers were pushing out eagerly to reach the shore, while up the other gang plank was struggling a line of curious humanity.