“Are we really the first to come up the river?” asked Phil.
“To be sure you are. Not only that, but the first to reach the diggings from any direction since navigation closed. But how did you come? Not by the river, I know, for when I heard your shooting ’twas clear away up the creek.”
“We came by the Tanana and across the Divide,” answered Phil. “There is another party coming by way of the river, though, and we were afraid they might get in ahead of us.”
“Hark to that, boys! One train just arrived, and another coming! I tell you, old Forty Mile is right in it. Daily express from all points, through tickets to Europe, Arup, and Arrap; morning papers and opera-houses, circus and theaytres. Looks like the boom had struck us at last. But say, stranger, what is the news from below?”
“New steamer on her way up the river, with saw-mill, mining machinery, and best stock of goods ever seen in Alaska,” replied Phil, quick to seize the opportunity, and anxious to make his business known while he still had the field to himself. “We have come from her, and are on our way to San Francisco to send up a new stock for next season. So we have only stopped to take your orders and find out what will be the most acceptable.”
“Hurrah!” yelled the crowd, wild with excitement. “Send us a brass-band,” shouted one. “In swaller-tails and white kids,” added another. “What’s the matter with moving the Palace Hotel up here?” suggested a third, “seeing as San Francisco isn’t in it any longer with Forty Mile. Especially send along the café.”
“Come, fellows, let up,” cried the man who had been the first to welcome the new arrivals, and whose name was Riley. “We mustn’t keep these gentlemen standing out here in the cold any longer. I reckon they’re hungry, too, and wondering why we don’t invite ’em to grub. So, men, just come into my shebang and make yourselves at home. There isn’t much to it, but such as it is it’s yours, so long as you’ll honor yours truly.”
“No, come with me,” cried another voice. “I’ve got beans, Boston baked, fresh from the can.” “I’ve got molasses and soft-tack,” and “I’ve just made a dish of scouse,” “Come with us,” shouted others.
“No, you don’t!” roared Mr. Riley. “They’re my meat, and they are going to bunk in with me. But, boys, you can send along your beans and your dope and your scouse, and whatever else comes handy, for I’ve only got roast beef and chicken-salad and a few terrapin, and we want to do this thing up in style. So, ‘all small contributions thankfully received’ is the word, and if we don’t scare up just the niftiest spread on the coast this night then my name isn’t Platt Riley, that’s all.”