I picked the kitten up, inspired by a sudden impulse.
“He shall keep me company.” I put him in my coat pocket and half an hour later I was packing my scanty wardrobe. Six days later I was standing on the quay at Vancouver, making inquiries for transportation to the Yukon gold fields. The man to whom I addressed the question was a rough, burly fellow, none too clean, with a heavy beard covering his face up to the eyes.
His answer was, “What are you going to the Yukon for?”
“To mine gold.”
“Ha! ha! ha! Jim,” to another man who was loading some packages into a yawl, “Jim, come here, do you see this spindle,” pointing to me. “Here’s a new chum who wants to go to the Yukon and hunt for gold. Look at him, see them legs and hands. Ha! ha!”
“Only another tenderfoot gone mad,” was Jim’s reply as he walked away.
“I’m going to the Yukon,” I said decidedly.
“Right you are my boy. You may start but you’ll never come back. I’ve seen plenty of new chums on Bendigo and Yackendandah, they always talk big on the go-in, and cry on the come-out. What’s that you’ve got in your pocket?”
“A kitten.”
“Is the kitten on the rush too?”