“I guess they wouldn’t have done it if they’d been Lancashire,” Tembarom answered. “But they hadn’t much more sense than I had. They paid me twenty-five dollars a week—that’s five pounds.”
“I dun not believe thee,” said Tummas, and leaned back on his pillow short of breath.
“I didn’t believe it myself till I’d paid my board two weeks and bought a suit of clothes with it,” was Tembarom’s answer, and he chuckled as he made it.
But Tummas did believe it. This, after he had recovered from the shock, became evident. The curiosity in his face intensified itself; his eagerness was even vaguely tinged with something remotely resembling respect. It was not, however, respect for the money which had been earned, but for the store of things “doin’” which must have been acquired. It was impossible that this chap knew things undreamed of.
“Has tha ever been to the Klondike?” he asked after a long pause.
“No. I’ve never been out of New York.”
Tummas seemed fretted and depressed.
“Eh, I’m sorry for that. I wished tha’d been to the Klondike. I want to be towd about it,” he sighed. He pulled the atlas toward him and found a place in it.
“That theer’s Dawson,” he announced. Tembarom saw that the region of the Klondike had been much studied. It was even rather faded with the frequent passage of searching fingers, as though it had been pored over with special curiosity.
“There’s gowd-moines theer,” revealed Tummas. “An’ theer’s welly nowt else but snow an’ ice. A young chap as set out fro’ here to get theer froze to death on the way.”