Toward evening a ship arrived and began to belch forth freight and passengers, whereupon there ensued a rush to find shelter.
Pierce was engaged in dismantling the office fixtures when a stranger entered and accosted him with the inquiry:
"Got any rooms?"
"No, sir. We're moving this hotel bodily to Dawson."
The new-comer surveyed the littered premises with some curiosity. He was a tall, gray-haired man, with a long, impassive face of peculiar ashen color. He had lost his left hand somewhere above the wrist and in place of it wore a metal hook. With this he gestured stiffly in the direction of a girl who had followed him into the building.
"She's got to have a bed," he declared. "I can get along somehow till my stuff is landed to-morrow."
"I'm sorry," Pierce told him, "but the beds are all down and the windows are out. I'm afraid nobody could get much sleep here, for we'll be at work all night."
"Any other hotels?"
"Some bunk-houses. But they're pretty full."
"Money no object, I suppose?" the one-armed man ventured.