It was afternoon ere they got through; and as they gained the town, a rough board-building with a great white cloth sign painted on it—"Restaurant, meals 50 cents"—met their gaze from the head of the wharf. Other buildings of similar character composed generally this section of the town, so they walked into the first.
It was a box of a place, as unfinished internally as externally. A dozen or so men, perched on high stools, were leaning against a board counter covered with white oilcloth. Behind the counter stood a woman and a girl; a range, where the chef was operating, at their back. A board partition divided off a sleeping apartment. The curtain that gave the room privacy was but half drawn. Articles of clothing, trunks, and boxes were strewn in disorder on the floor.
"Soup?" queried the lady as they took their seats. The cook filled two flat tin plates with a watery solution of tomatoes and rice. This they attacked. When the soup was finished two other tin plates were handed them, laden with cubical chunks of beef and gravy. Dishes of potatoes and boiled beans, with bread and butter in tin bowls, were lined upon the counter for each man to help himself from. At the end of the second course a plate, bearing a quarter section of sickly-looking apple-pie, was slid over to each.
The old lady presiding wore the smile of prosperity, and looked communicative, so John opened conversation. "Been in Skagway long?"
"Just a month."
"Doing well?"
"Sure thing! feed about three hundred people a day. Don't care if the rush never lets up."
"You've got a gold-mine here without the trouble of going to Dawson."
"Sure!—that is if Soapy don't put the whole town out of business. He makes the saloons and gambling-halls pay him royalty now, besides running shows himself; and I guess he'll be after us soon to make us anti-up too."
"I thought Alaska was a prohibition territory, no whisky sold here."