“Ah, gold,” put in Mr. Zachary Smith quietly.
“And reams of ‘returns.’”
“They reckon that the ‘rush’ to the Yukon’ll come next year. Maybe things will alter then.”
Smith straightened himself up from his occupation. His face displayed but the most ordinary interest in the conversation.
At that moment Chillingwood returned bearing two small brass-bound chests. The Indian followed him bringing a number of packages of tinned food. Smith glanced from the chests––which were as much as Chillingwood could carry––to the angular proportions of the Indian’s burden, then back again to the chests. He watched furtively as the officer deposited the latter; then he turned back to the stove and opened the damper.
Then followed a meal of which all three partook with that heartiness which comes of an appetite induced by a hardy open-air life. They talked but little while they ate, and that little was of the 26 prospects of the new Eldorado. Leslie Grey spoke with the bitterness of a disappointed man. In reality he had been successful in the business he had adopted. But some men are born grumblers, and he was one. It is probable that had he been born a prince he would have loudly lamented the fact that he was not a king. Chillingwood was different; he accepted the situation and enjoyed his life. He was unambitious whilst faithfully doing that which he regarded as his duty, first to himself, then to his employers. His method of life was something like that of the sailor. He fully appreciated the motto of the seafaring gentry––one hand for himself and one for his employers. When in doubt both hands for self. He meant to break away from his present employment when the Yukon “rush” came. In the meantime he was on the spot. Mr. Zachary Smith chiefly listened. He could eat and watch his guests. He could study them. And he seemed in no way inclined to waste his time on words when he could do the other two things. He said little about himself, and was mainly contented with comprehensive nods and grunts, whilst he devoured huge portions of tinned tongue and swallowed bumpers of scalding tea.
After dinner the travellers produced their pipes. Grey offered his tobacco to their host. Mr. Zachary Smith shook his head.
“Given up tobacco––mostly,” he said, glancing in the direction of the door, which groaned under a sudden attack from the storm which was now howling with terrible force outside. “It isn’t that I don’t like it. But when a man gets cooped up in these 27 hills he’s like to run out of it, and then it’s uncomfortable. I’ve taken on a native weed which does me for smoking when I need it––which isn’t often. It grows hereabouts and isn’t likely to give out. Guess I won’t smoke now.”
Grey shrugged and lit his pipe. If any man could be fool enough to reject tobacco, Leslie Grey was not the sort of man to press him. He was intolerant of ideas in any one but himself. Chillingwood sucked luxuriously at his pipe and thought big things.
The blue smoke clouds curled insinuatingly about the heads of the smokers, and rose heavily upon the dense atmosphere of the hut. The two men stretched themselves indolently upon the ground, sometimes speaking, but, for the most part, silent. These wayfarers thought little of time. They had a certain task to perform which, the elements permitting, they would carry out in due course. In the meantime it was storming, and they had been fortunate in finding shelter in these wastes of snow and ice; they were glad to accept what comfort came their way. This enforced delay would find a simple record in Leslie Grey’s report to his superiors. “Owing to a heavy storm, etc.” They were Government servants. The routine of these men’s lives was all very monotonous, but they were used to it, and use is a wonderful thing. It so closely borders on content.