Notwithstanding the fire, the air of the tent was chill and frosty, and the canvas flapped in the wind. The walls of the tent were dark, showing the level of the snow around them. The presence of this snow, no doubt, explained how the tent had withstood the fury of the gale.
The policeman led the way to the cook tent, where they were given bacon and slap-jacks.
"Can't make bread here, and don't get it very often from Dyea, and we're just out now," apologized the policeman who acted as cook.
While they were eating ravenously, the officer in command of the post called to see them and inquired if they were any the worse for their experiences.
"Hardly salubrious, the climate, eh?" he said, after they had answered his particular questions. "On several occasions we have had the tents blown down, and frequently the men had to sit up all night holding the poles to prevent a catastrophe. I must say our fellows have shown great grit under most trying circumstances. You see we are on a civil campaign here, and there is not the excitement of fighting to keep the men up."
With that the officer left the tent. A policeman glanced after him and muttered,
"Civil campaign! Hear the old man talk! We're holding down the blooming Passes for the Queen! That's what we're doing. We could live in comfort at Lindeman, with all the wood we want for cabins and to burn."
"Where do you get your wood?"
"Down the trail—when we get any at all. They send a horse up from Lindeman. The last few days the trail has been pretty good, and some teams have been hauling from there to here: but we got only one load—which won't last us through the storm, if it holds much longer."
"Do you collect much duty here?"