Plover Bay, Siberia, in July.
"Oh, you are a steam-whaler," and his face fell.
"No, not a whaler," I said.
"Well, then, what are you here for?" he asked, curiously.
"I am on the same errand as you."
As soon as he comprehended he was terribly angry, and apparently wished me at the bottom of the sea. He turned on his heel and walked away, without doing me the courtesy of asking me into the cabin, although it was raining. But one of the Americans stepped forward, and I was taken to their quarters, where explanations followed. I told them the situation, how that we had carefully prospected all along the coast, but had found no gold. I felt I was doing them a favor to let them know that there was no use in spending time and money in a search for gold along the Siberian coast of Bering Sea. Whether or not they believed me I cannot tell, but the next morning we weighed anchor, and left them there waiting for the arrival of the Yakut.
The search for a Siberian Klondike was over.