"But where is the White Pass?"
"There." The purser pointed to the mouth of a valley, which soon appeared blocked by a mighty mountain.
"And that is the White Pass?"
"It is."
"Say, purser, is that berth I had taken for the trip down again? If not, save it for me. I guess I'm wanted back in I-dee-ho."
Mr. Muggsley, the big man, the strong man, "Big Jack," as his friends called him, was suddenly possessed of "cold feet." The great uplifting mountains with their glittering peaks flung to heaven had quickened the cowardice of his craven soul.
Berwick and his comrade struggled ashore through the rushing freight-handlers and piled-up supplies. The freight which came from the Canadian port, Vancouver, had to be passed by the United States Customs, and the officers seemed few. There was a method of overcoming the Customs—by employing a "convoy," an official of the United States Customs, to escort the goods across the narrow strip into Canadian territory again. John made inquiries, and addressed a fellow in a wild garb, bespeaking a resident.
"Pay the duty, partner! These escort fellows are a bunch of grafters! They ain't no credit to the United States, I can tell you. Yes, pay duty, and hand an officer a ten-dollar bill on the side, or they'll keep you here a week, you bet!"
John decided to pay the duty. The convoy would cost $5.00 per day and expenses. He made an effort to get his goods passed, but without success—till he paid the ten-dollar bribe. George did the same. John did not like bribery; but—what else could he do?