Old Jim, the excellent darky cook, gave me a cordial reception, which was even more effusive when I gave him a cigar. He chuckled when I asked him if he missed Mr. Sunnyside, his assistant of last season. I think that the way Jim expressed his feelings toward Sunnyside is worth recording. Sunnyside was a big, strapping Californian who had come up on the Lane the year before, by profession a lawyer, and doubtless regarded by the fond inhabitants of his native town as a future Daniel Webster. He aired a deep bass voice on the ship, and presented a very noble and manly figure as he held up his end of the quartet. As already observed, on the arrival of the fortune-hunters at Nome in 1900 there were no loose nuggets lying about waiting to be picked up, and, consequently, many of the confident newcomers were obliged to "come right down to hard-pan." And so it happened that Sunnyside abandoned the idea of practising law, and, later in the season, found himself assistant-general-utility man to old Jim at 15 Ophir. He soon developed into probably the most mournful, cheerless, pessimistic individual in the country, and gave vent to his feelings accordingly. The country was "God-forsaken" (as indeed it is); he suffered from several complaints on account of the miserable climate and the lack of a feather bed; and the days until his escape in the autumn seemed each one of a year's duration. One day, at dinner-time, when Sunnyside had sounded some dismal note, old Jim, good-naturedly enough, turned to him, and said: "Mr. Sunnyside, my feelings to'a'd you am very well expressed by the col'ed gen'leman who was divo'ced from his wife. Says he, 'Em'line, if I nebber see you again dat won't be any too soon.'" A roar of delighted appreciation went up from the double row of tables.
The roughing and hardships of the California forty-niners, who, bountifully supplied by nature on all sides, needed no cover at night other than the canopy of heaven, and who could work twelve months in the year, seem trifling compared with the conditions which the Alaska pioneers have confronted in a land disconsolately barren and inhospitable, that metes out a meager four-months season for their labor. To borrow again from Dunham, here were globe-travelers, men who had "panned from Peru to Point Barrow," now in August "cross-cutting a cussed cold creek," who would say, "There's no use telling the people at home about this country; they'd think you were lying." And so, in fact, it is a very difficult thing to undertake to do; for the reader or listener has really nothing relative to go by, and, of course, atmosphere is essential to an adequate appreciation and understanding.
The ultimate yield of the "gold of Ophir" Creek will be enormous and astonishing, justifying its right to a name famous from ancient times. But, as is generally true of northwestern Alaska, the claims in order to pay well must be (and they will be) owned and worked by large companies, able to incur a considerable preliminary expense to mine them properly and on a large scale. Now and then the individual will find a rich spot from which he and his partners may realize a few thousand dollars; but the palmy days of the Nome beach and the Topkok diggings are seemingly over, and, as most of the miners say, it is not a "poor man's country." And yet, as regards its wealth, hardly the surface has been scratched. Dredging companies have been formed to operate the gravel bars and the gold deposits in the beds of the streams; and there is excellent reason for believing that fortunes will be made in this way. An excellent indication of the stability and extent of the Council City District is the fact that the common currency is gold-dust. Every store and office has its gold-scales, and one must, for his own protection, be skilled in manipulating the delicate balances. Although an ounce of "clean" gold will average at the assayer's from eighteen to nineteen dollars, sixteen dollars is, in Alaska, the accepted current value. With this, therefore, as a standard,—a pennyweight being eighty cents and a grain three and a third cents,—with accurate scales and proper weights, exchange is not a difficult matter.
Alaska has furnished a fertile field for unscrupulous schemers to enrich themselves at the expense of credulous investors. Hundreds of claims, which either did not exist or were not worth the paper upon which they were presented, have been sold to the gullible public, and corporations have been formed to make their stockholders quickly millionaires. Such a proposed donor of wealth was "The Polar Bear Mining Company," whose prospectus I had read and whose operations near Council were within my ken. This bonanza concern had a capital stock of one million shares, offered for sale at four cents a share, and its assets consisted of forty-seven wildcat claims upon which the prospectus dwelt at length in golden praise, declaring that "pay streaks" and "old channels" pervaded the entire bunch. "Alaska has made many millionaires—why not be one?" was the tenor of this masterpiece of seductive argument. After the season was well under way, the Polar Bear began to tear open the ground not far from Council; and soon afterward a party of some six or seven discouraged, disgusted, and disgruntled men trudged laboriously over the tundra, and camped near us, until they should learn from headquarters at Nome which other one of the forty-seven claims should similarly be drained of its treasure. But no word came, and there they remained abjectly despondent as the dreary days dragged by. One evening my partner and I strolled over to where they were gathered in dismal silence about a small fire, engaged in brushing away the mosquitos, and looking generally miserable. They appeared to be farmers masquerading as miners. There had been defection in the camp, due to a controversy as to who was the "captain," and in consequence the circle was depleted. Speaking of this lamentable fact, one of them, who resembled a shoemaker out of employment, said apologetically (but he was proud of it): "Now, I don't want to seem to be stuck up or conceited, but I'm the boss here—I'm the secretary of the company." "How much did it cost you?" we queried. "Well," he said, "I didn't pay anything to be secretary, but I put twenty-one hundred dollars in the company." At this of course we roared, and soon had the outfit, despite their misery, laughing themselves while we recited choice bits from the glowing prospectus. Before departing, the "secretary" earnestly besought us not to tell anybody about his investment, and resignedly admitted that the laugh was on him.
Later, in August and during the first part of September, the nights were clear and bright and cold. A beautiful full moon, dominant in the brilliant starry heavens, almost made day of night, and added luster and weird charm to the picturesque meanderings of the river. The north star was viewed at closer range, and shone sparkling more nearly overhead. Icicles, as long as one's arm, formed in stalactite fashion, hung from the sluice-boxes in the small hours of the morning; but, nevertheless, aided by the light of lanterns, the work of mining went on as regularly as clockwork. The days were mild and sunny,—like October in New England,—and there was promise of a late working autumn, though the wild geese and sand-hill cranes with hoarse cry were flying southward.
One fine Sunday morning I said farewell to my friends at Council, several of whom requested me to think of them when I was "dining at the Waldorf"; and as my partner had decided again to winter it through and hold things down, I left behind me a courageous, cultured, and able gentleman, whose good judgment and varied mental attainments the community, appreciative as heretofore, would enjoy throughout the white silence.