“That he was just an old sourdough prospector,” Mr. Bowman put in. “Not a bit of it. He is a prospector, has been for thirty-five years. Found gold once and lost it again to save his partner’s life. Yes, a prospector, but a long beard, hair to the shoulders, beer guzzler always dreaming about the past? Not a bit of it! Tom Kennedy is young, young as a boy. Keen as any youngster, too.”
“And clean,” Mrs. Bowman put in. “Never drinks a drop. I don’t think he even smokes.
“Just now,” her voice dropped to conversational tone, “he’s doing a truly wonderful thing. He’s got the notion that our young people are growing soft.”
“They are, too,” Mr. Bowman grumbled.
“Tom Kennedy’s trying to bring back some of our glorious past, dog-teams, long, moonlit trails, the search for gold. He’s trying to interest the young people in all that,” added Mrs. Bowman.
“He’s doing it, too,” Bowman nodded his head. “Look at the dog race. They really think they’ll win,” he laughed good-naturedly. “Of course they won’t. Smitty Valentine’s going to beat ’em, by an hour or two. Good thing to have them try, though.”
“You see,” Mrs. Bowman explained, “we have an annual dog race. It ends with a big feast in honor of the winner. Your grandfather has gotten the young people interested in that race, made them think they can win. They’ve put their best dogs together into a team. A boy named Jodie Joleson is going to drive it. I surely wish they could win. But this man, Smitty Valentine, who is backed by all the pool halls and men’s clubs in town, has won so many years hand running, that we’ve lost track.”
“Belongs to the Sourdough Club,” Bowman explained. “Sort of old timers’ club.”
“And now these young people have what they call the ‘Fresh Dough Club’ of young timers,” Mrs. Bowman laughed.
“And now I think you may all come in and sit down at the table.” It was their hostess who brought to an end this—to Florence—amazing revelation.