[“‘THE FUR-SEAL’S TOOTH!’ HE CRIED”]

THE FUR-SEAL’S TOOTH

A Story of Alaskan Adventure

BY

KIRK MUNROE

AUTHOR OF
“DORYMATES” “CAMPMATES” “CANOEMATES”
“RAFTMATES” ETC.

ILLUSTRATED

NEW YORK AND LONDON

HARPER & BROTHERS PUBLISHERS

Books for Boys by

KIRK MUNROE

(Harper’s Young People Series)

Wakulla: a story of adventure in Florida.
The Flamingo Feather: a story of the West.
Derrick Sterling: a story of the mines.
Chrystal, Jack & Co., and Delta Bixby.

Illustrated. Cloth, 16mo. 60 cents each.

THE “MATES” SERIES

Raftmates: a story of the Mississippi.
Dorymates: a tale of the Fishing Banks.
Campmates: a story of the Plains.
Canoemates: a story of the Florida Everglades.

Illustrated. Post 8vo. $1.25 each.

Set of 4 volumes in box, $5.00.

THE “PACIFIC COAST” SERIES

The Fur-Seal’s Tooth: a story of Alaskan adventure.
Snow-shoes and Sledges: a sequel to “The Fur-Seal’s Tooth.”
Rick Dale: a story of the Northwest coast.
The Painted Desert: a story of Northern Arizona.

Illustrated. Post 8vo. $1.25 each.

Set of 4 volumes in box, $5.00.

KIRK MUNROE’S LATEST STORIES

For the Mikado: a story of the Russo-Japanese War.
The Blue Dragon: a story of recent adventures in China.
“Forward, March!”: a tale of the Spanish-American War.
The Copper Princess: a story of the Great Lakes.

Illustrated. Post 8vo. $1.25 each.

HARPER & BROTHERS, PUBLISHERS, NEW YORK

Copyright, 1894, by Harper & Brothers.

All rights reserved.

ALASKA

A land of rock, dipped in the brine
Like a brown finger pointing toward the west
* * * * *
The little craft flies fast to the fair bay
Whose waters kiss the feet of Sitka town

H. E. H.

CONTENTS

ILLUSTRATIONS

ALASKA AND BEHRING SEA

THE FUR-SEAL’S TOOTH

[CHAPTER I]
PHIL AND SERGE

Although the sun was shining brightly over the pleasant little British Columbian city of Victoria, and the air was filled with the flower scents and bird notes of late spring-time, at least one of the strollers along its busy streets was so decidedly unhappy that he paid no attention to sunshine, birds, or flowers. Life just then seemed a very serious and perplexing affair to Phil Ryder, and, to quote an expression that he himself had often used in regard to others, he looked as though he had lost his last friend. If any one in all that strange foreign city had been intimate enough with him to suggest this to Phil, he would have replied, “And so I have, for I have lost my last dollar, and in a strange country I don’t know of any better friend than the good old Yankee dollar.”

How it all happened was this way: Phil was a New England lad, and hailed from the quaint old Connecticut town of New London. He was freckle-faced and curly-headed, not very tall, but so broad-shouldered that no one ever thought of asking him if he was travelling for his health. What with rowing, paddling, and sailing, skating and coasting, playing football until he became centre rush and captain of his school team, going on long, delightful outing trips to the Maine woods with his father, who had been the most painstaking of teachers in the useful arts of shooting, fishing, and camping out, this boy had early developed into an all-round athlete of more than ordinary attainments. With additional strength had come an increase of self-reliance, until at the age of seventeen he was about as independent and manly a young fellow as one would be apt to discover in a long day’s journey.

But this very independence often led him into trouble. Like most self-reliant boys, he was inclined to place an undue value upon his own knowledge and acquirements, and to make light of those of his elders. All except his own father, whom Phil regarded as the very wisest and best of men, and whose example in all things he was most anxious to copy.

And yet from this very father the boy inherited his worst fault, which was that of carelessness. Although his aunt Ruth, who had brought him up from the babyhood in which he lost his mother, made a point of providing him with a place for everything, and had almost hourly, during his whole life, impressed upon him the importance of keeping things in their places, he never yet had learned the lesson she strove so earnestly to impart. He would say, “Yes, Aunt Rue, I’ll remember,” give her a hearty kiss, and rush away with an instant forgetfulness of all she had just said. He lost and mislaid not only his own things, but those of other people, until at length no one who knew him would lend him anything of value. He forgot messages, and could not be trusted to go on errands. He was forever in hot water on account of broken engagements, and though naturally a bright student, was always in trouble over his lessons on account of having to spend most of his study hours in searching for mislaid books. Generally they were found flung into a corner of the stone wall bounding the football field, tucked carefully under the steps of the boat-house, or hidden away in some other unlikely place that no one but he would have thought of, and any one but he would have remembered.

His son’s heedlessness was Mr. Ryder’s greatest trial.

“Philip! Philip! why won’t you overcome it for my sake, if not for your own?” he would cry; and the boy would answer:

“I do try, Pop; indeed I do, but it’s no use. I was born that way, and I expect I shall be that way so long as I live. After all, I am the one who suffers most from it.”

“Hold hard, Phil! There’s where you are wrong. No one can truly say that, for no one can ever know how far-reaching may be the consequences of his own actions. With every single act of carelessness you cause more or less anxiety and inconvenience to those about you. Sooner or later, just so sure as you fail to conquer this wretched habit, it will lead you, and probably others with you, into some unhappy predicament, from which I pray you may escape without the accompaniment of a life-long sorrow.”

After a talk like this Phil would reform for a day or two. He would present himself to his astonished schoolmates as a model of punctuality, and would show an attention to trifles that was painful in its minuteness. These efforts at reform were always accompanied by such an unnatural restraint of manner, so severe an expression of countenance, and so stern a refusal to engage in any of the frivolities of life, such as football or even the minor sports of the season, that there was always a general rejoicing when in some sudden excitement the young penitent forgot his vows, and relapsed into his old jolly, heedless self.

Even to Aunt Ruth these brief seasons of austere reform were periods of trial and anxiety lest by some unguarded act or word she should fail to set her nephew a proper example. So she, too, secretly breathed a sigh of relief when the day of penance was ended, and she could resume her accustomed way of quietly picking up and putting things to rights, after one of Phil’s sudden inroads through the house in search of something that must be found at once, because all the fellows were waiting. He knew he left it right here! and what could have become of it?

Phil’s father, Mr. John Ryder, was a mining expert, whose business of examining into the condition of mines, and reporting upon their value for the information of capitalists or stockholders, kept him travelling pretty constantly to all sorts of out-of-the-way nooks and corners of the world. Phil considered it the most delightful business in which one could engage, and longed for the time to come when he might follow in his father’s footsteps. He even thought it a little hard that the latter would never allow him to go as his companion upon any of his distant journeyings, but insisted on his attending strictly to school and his studies.

Mr. Ryder always so arranged his affairs as to spend a part at least of every vacation with his boy, and then they took those long trips into the woods that, up to this time, had formed the most delightful episodes of Phil’s life. At other times, when he was at home, Mr. Ryder devoted himself so entirely to his son, and entered so heartily into his pursuits and plans, that a very strong bond of sympathy existed between them, and the boy was never so happy as when in his father’s company.

Now it happened that the very year in which Phil was to graduate from the New London High School found his father engaged on an important and prolonged survey of mining property in the distant and little-known land of Alaska. It was a great disappointment to both father and son that the former could not be present at the latter’s graduation. At the same time there were compensations in a promise of glittering possibilities held out by Mr. Ryder.

“If you will only graduate within five of the head of your class, Phil, you shall come out and spend the summer with me in Alaska,” he had said, and the boy knew that he meant it.

What a prospect was thus held forth! and what boy in his senses would refuse to work hard for such a reward as that? A whole summer in the distant wonderland of the far north, amid Eskimos and Indians, volcanoes and glaciers, wolves and bears, seals and salmon! Every fellow in the school, and nearly every boy in town, for that matter, knew of the splendid prize for which Phil was striving, and they watched him either with feelings of mean envy that secretly hoped he might lose it, or with an honestly outspoken hope that he might win it, according to their dispositions.

These New London lads knew, or thought they knew, a great deal about Alaska; for had not Serge Belcofsky, a young Russo-American from Sitka, attended one of their schools for a whole year? He had come on an Arctic whaler that had touched at Sitka on her homeward voyage. With an uncommon perseverance, and a longing for a better education than he could obtain at home, the lad had worked his way to New London on this whaler, had with infinite patience and self-denial worked his way through a whole year of schooling, and was now working his way back towards his distant home on a fishing-schooner that had been purchased in New London by parties in Victoria, British Columbia, for use on the Pacific coast.

During his whole year of schooling Serge Belcofsky had been terribly homesick, and his intense longing for his far-away northern home had made it seem to him a veritable paradise. Thus from the outpourings of his full heart the other boys had learned that, while in certain portions of Alaska there were such things as cold weather, ice, snow, fogs, and in summer-time incredible swarms of the most blood-thirsty mosquitoes, and other unpleasant features, these were almost unknown in Sitka, which was by far the loveliest spot on the face of the earth.

There, according to Serge, for some reason not made quite clear, though probably on account of the heat from surrounding but perfectly harmless volcanoes, perpetual summer reigned, flowers bloomed incessantly, and the woods, always green, were filled with the most beautiful birds. Sitka itself was a great and wonderful city, containing a castle, a cathedral, a fort, a parade-ground for the troops always stationed there, a battery of heavy guns, a governor’s residence, stately men-of-war in its harbor, Indians in its suburbs, and a thousand other attractive features. Besides all this, there were gold mines of fabulous richness on every side; in fact, the lofty mountains rising just back of the city were full of gold.

This last was the statement that the boys most doubted until it was confirmed by Phil Ryder, who happened to overhear both it and their incredulous exclamations. He knew, of course; for was not his father acquainted with all the gold mines in the world? and had he not even now gone out to set the seal of his approval on those of Alaska?

Phil did not know Serge Belcofsky very well; for though the latter was of about his own age, he was so far behind in his studies as to be in a lower class, and so infinitely removed from a fellow of the former’s high attainments. At the same time, as the young Russo-American did not understand any of the games played by the Yankee boys in whose company he found himself, and was far too busy earning his daily bread to learn them, the leading athlete and ball-player of the school regarded him with a sort of pitying indifference. He did not altogether ignore him, and even on occasions listened with the smiling indulgence of a superior to the young Sitkan’s marvellous tales of his native place.

For this, Serge, who regarded Phil with an admiration that almost amounted to reverence, was deeply grateful, and when the young hero of the ball-field went so far as to back up his most doubtful assertions, and so establish them as truth beyond further question, his gratitude knew no bounds. In a vague effort to express it, he ventured to present Phil with his most valued possession—[it was the ivory tooth of a fur-seal] exquisitely carved, that had been given to his father many years before, as a token of highest esteem, by a chief of Chilkat Indians—one of the most powerful and warlike of Alaskan tribes.

[“IT WAS THE IVORY TOOTH OF A FUR-SEAL”]

Phil deigned to accept this gift, and even went so far as to wear it attached to his watch-chain, to the unfeigned gratification of his sincere admirer and would-be friend. Although Phil’s watch was but an inexpensive one in a nickel case, and its chain was of steel, this new ornament attracted so much attention from all who happened to note it, that the lad at length began to value it rather highly himself, and to study with interest the curious devices with which it was so beautifully carved.

[CHAPTER II]
WINNING THE PRIZE

Serge Belcofsky had departed early in the year, and Alaska was lost sight of by most of the New London boys amid the throng of more immediate, and to them important, interests that crowded thick and fast into their lives. These were Billy Bow’s birthday party, the opening of the gymnasium, the launch of the new yacht, theatricals for the library fund, the last skating-match of the season, and a score of other things demanding their undivided attention. Phil Ryder managed to take some part in all of these, though he was by no means so active nor so much of a leader as formerly. That Alaska trip was to him a living reality, and he was striving for it with all his might. Some of the other fellows were provoked that he should neglect sports, in which he had so excelled, for the mere purpose of studying, while there was still so much time left in which to attend to that.

“There are two whole months yet before graduation,” argued Al Snyder one day, when he was vainly endeavoring to persuade Phil to undertake the coaching of the nine. “Two whole months! And yet here you are grinding away as though examinations were to begin to-morrow. Catch me working like that!”

“Oh yes, you would,” laughed Phil, “if you had the prize held out to you that I have.”

“Pshaw!” ejaculated Al. “You know you can go on that trip no matter where you stand. Your governor only put it that way to try and make you work a little harder. It’s just one of his tricks. They’re all up to them.”

“It is nothing of the kind!” retorted Phil, hotly. “And you don’t know what you are talking about when you speak in that way of my father. He never said anything in his life that he didn’t mean. If I am inside of number five I’ll go to Alaska, and if I’m not, I won’t. That’s all there is about it. But I mean to be inside, and as I can’t make sure of that and watch the nine at the same time, you see it is impossible for me to do what you want.”

So Phil stuck to his books, and all of a sudden there came a letter from Mr. Ryder stating that, as his work was drawing to a close sooner than he had expected, and as he was more desirous than ever of having his son visit the wonderful country in which he was located, Phil might come out to him at once, without waiting to graduate, provided he stood better than number five in all his classes.

Here was a startling proposition! Did he stand better than five everywhere? The boy rapidly ran over his position in his several classes. He was within the magic number everywhere except in mathematics, and there he stood at exactly five.

“I could have stood better than five there too, if I had not given my chance to hump-backed Jimmy, the other day,” he reflected, though he was too honorable a fellow to even have hinted at such a thing aloud. He knew it, and he thought Jimmy himself knew it, for he had seen a quick flush rise to the cripple’s pale cheek when it happened; but he didn’t believe any one else did, nor did he intend they should. Still, what could he do under the circumstances? He was not inside of number five in all of his classes.

The struggle was too hard a one for the boy to make alone, and he carried his perplexities to Mr. Blake, the head-master of his school. After the latter had read Mr. Ryder’s letter, and listened attentively to Phil’s presentation of the facts, he laid his hand on the lad’s shoulder, and said,

“Phil, do you remember the sentiment with which you headed your final composition of last year?”

“Yes, sir,” answered the boy; “of course I do. My father gave it to me, and I shall never forget it.”

“What was its exact wording?”

“‘Regard honor as more precious than life itself; for without the former the latter is valueless,’” repeated Phil, in a low tone.

“You would hardly care to sacrifice your life for the sake of this trip?”

“No, sir, nor my honor either!” cried the lad, with a brave tremble in his voice. “So, as I cannot say with perfect truth that I am inside of number five in all my studies, I will write to father to-night, and tell him the proposed trip must be given up.”

“Spoken like the honest, true-hearted Yankee lad that you are, Phil Ryder!” exclaimed Mr. Blake, grasping the boy’s hand, and holding it tightly clasped. “Stick to that principle through life, and you will have mastered the secret of all true success. But let us look into this matter a little further. I happen to have noticed a private transaction between you and lame Jimmy the other day. If you had not, as I believe purposely, made the same mistake that he did you would have gone above him, and would now stand number four instead of number five in geometry. Now, on account of that I have a proposition to make. While I am sorry not to have you graduate with your class, I know that your father has good reasons for wishing you to visit Alaska this summer, while with you the desire to join him there is very great.”

“Indeed it is, sir!”

“Well, then, if you will give me your word of honor not to divulge a word of their contents, I will place the forthcoming examination papers of your class in your hands. If you can satisfactorily answer ninety per cent. of their questions, you will stand safely within the number named by your father, and I will give you a certificate to that effect.”

“Oh, thank you, sir!” cried Phil, with such a revulsion of feeling from deepest disappointment to brightest hope, that even the sunset seemed suddenly to have taken on a new and more radiant splendor. “Of course I promise! and, of course, I shall be only too glad to try the examinations!”

“Very well,” said Mr. Blake. “Come to my study to-morrow evening directly after tea, and we will make a beginning with English literature and Latin. In the mean time don’t mention to any one, excepting your aunt, what you are doing.”

How thankful Phil was that he had so used his time as to be able to approach this trial with confidence, and how hard he did work during the next three days in revising his studies of the previous year! What anxious minutes he spent at the conclusion of the third evening of examination, while Mr. Blake looked over and marked the last paper, the one in mathematics, that he had just handed in.

“It’s all right, Philip!” the head-master finally announced, “and I do most heartily congratulate you on your success. This last paper brings your average up to ninety-three per cent., which, as compared with the class standings of the past ten years, lands you well within the limit named by your father. I therefore feel no hesitation in giving you that rank, and you may, with a clear conscience, start on your journey just as soon as your preparations can be made. Good-bye! God bless you! I trust you will have the glorious time you expect, and which you have so honestly earned. I also hope that in the autumn you will return to us with a richly increased knowledge of our great country, and particularly of that vast Northern territory concerning which there is still so little general information.”

If the last three days had been busy ones for Phil, they had been equally so for his aunt Ruth, for in that short time she had been compelled to do all the making ready and packing, for which she had expected to have as many weeks. In these few days, during the infrequent intervals that her nephew spared from his studies, she felt it her duty to stock his mind with stores of good advice and oft-repeated warnings against his besetting fault. He listened with what patience he could command, but finally laughingly declared that it would be necessary for him to live at least a hundred years to put all her precepts into practice.

“Oh, but Phil!” she exclaimed, pausing in the packing of his trunk to emphasize her remarks, “you are so young and so careless, and the journey before you is so filled with terrible possibilities! I declare I don’t know but that I ought to go along to take care of you.”

“Nonsense, Aunt Rue!” retorted the young athlete, at the same time picking up the slight figure of his anxious relative and swinging her, ruffled and indignant, into his father’s great leathern arm-chair; “if I’m not old enough and big enough now to take care of myself, I never shall be. Of course I know that I have been careless at times, and heedless, and all that. I can assure you, though, that my careless days are things of the past, and that hereafter no graybeard of your acquaintance will afford a more perfect model of prudence than your humble nephew. As for you! well, the mere idea of a dear little thing like you wandering away out there among the Siwashes to protect a fellow of my size is prodigiously absurd. It surely is.”

“Absurd or not, Master Impudence, you’ll see the day more than once, before this trip is ended, that you’ll wish your old aunty was at hand with a little of her common-sense to help you out of some reckless scrape or other. Mark my words, you will.”

“All right, Aunt Rue, I’ll mark down your words as you suggest; mark ’em down to half-price. I’ll also make a note in my log-book of every time I get stranded for want of your counsel. Then when the cruise is over I promise to make a full confession, and humbly beg for those chunks of wisdom that shall enable me to steer clear of all such rocks in the future.”

“Get away with your foolishness, you young scapegrace!” cried Aunt Ruth, jumping down from the arm-chair and attempting a box on Phil’s ear, which the boy skilfully dodged, as a preliminary to resuming her packing.

At length all was in readiness, the last lingering good-byes were spoken, and the boy was fairly launched on his travels. All his young friends, and apparently half the town besides, were assembled at the station to see him set forth. His trunk was checked, he carried an overcoat on his arm, in his hands were a stout travelling-bag, and in a canvas case the beautiful Winchester that had been his father’s last birthday gift.

There was a grand shout of farewell from the fellows as the train finally moved out from the station, and Phil answered it with a wave of his hat from the rear platform of the last car. Then, going inside, he sat down to reflect upon his glorious prospects, that seemed to stretch away in a limitless haze of exciting adventure and daring exploit. If he could have had but one real glimpse of the varied hardships and bitter experiences held by the immediate future, I am afraid he would have shrunk from them as did the poor little bear who found himself alone in the world with all his troubles before him. Fortunately for our hero’s peace of mind, his vision was just as limited as is that of every one of us, who can have no possible inkling of what each coming day may bring forth.

[CHAPTER III]
AN UNDESIRABLE ACQUAINTANCE

According to the plan laid out by Mr. Ryder, Phil was to make his long journey across the continent by the Canadian Pacific Railway, which not only offers the most direct route to Victoria and a connection with the Alaska steamers, but passes through some of the grandest and most interesting scenery in America. Mr. Ryder’s letter contained explicit instructions concerning each step of the journey, and Phil had read these over so often that he knew them by heart. It had also contained a bank check for $200, which formed an ample allowance for the proposed trip. In regard to this Mr. Ryder had written: “Above all, my boy, take care of your money, and never display it before strangers. You know we are not wealthy people, and though the sum enclosed is not a large one, its loss and replacement would cause me a real inconvenience.”

“Of course I will take care of it,” said Phil, when he and his aunt Ruth read this paragraph over together, and she added her caution to that of his father. “I may lose some other and less-important things now and then, but money is something I’m likely to keep a pretty solid grip on, and I’d like to meet the man who’d dare try and take it from me.”

Here the sturdy young fellow glared about him as fiercely as though the room were filled with robbers, with whom he should take the greatest pleasure in trying conclusions.

In New London, Phil’s ticket could only be procured as far as Montreal, at which place he was to purchase another that would take him to Victoria, check his trunk to the same destination, and engage his sleeping-car berth as far as Vancouver. This latter city is the western terminus of the Canadian Pacific, is situated on the mainland bordering Puget Sound, and is seventy miles by water from Victoria, which is on the island of Vancouver.

Before leaving home, Phil’s money, in the shape of bank-bills, was placed in the new alligator-skin pocket-book which was Aunt Ruth’s parting gift, and thrust carefully into the young traveller’s inside vest pocket. There, in spite of his remonstrances, his aunt fastened it securely with two stout safety-pins.

Phil had taken the journey to Montreal so often with his father that he felt entirely at home in the Canadian metropolis, and knew just what to do when he reached there early on the following morning after leaving New London. With quite the air of an old traveller, and a slight feeling of contempt for the fluttering anxiety of those who were about to undergo their first experience with customs officers, he handed both his check and the key of his trunk to the Windsor Hotel porter, requested him to send the trunk to the Canadian Pacific station after it should have been examined, and stepped into the waiting hotel bus, with his mind relieved of all further anxiety concerning that portion of the business. As the overland train would not leave until evening, he now had the whole day before him, and was consequently free from hurry or worry of any kind.

After a capital breakfast, to which he devoted an hour of his ample leisure, he strolled into the great rotunda. Here he wrote a note to his aunt Ruth on the hotel paper, and felt imposed upon by being obliged to pay three cents for a Canadian stamp with which to send a letter out of the country, into which a two-cent American stamp would bring it. This was so clearly an extravagance that Phil decided to deny himself the luxury of letter-writing until he should come once more within the lines of the United States mail-service. Having settled upon this plan for saving money, he purchased a silver souvenir spoon, the handle of which was surmounted by the Canadian beaver, and mailed it, together with his letter, to his aunt Ruth.

Phil argued that though this might appear extravagant, it really was not; for in return for all her kindness he owed something to his dear aunt, whose hobby was the collecting of souvenir spoons. Besides, if he neglected this opportunity for the securing of one of those beaver spoons, he probably would not meet with another.

This transaction had hardly been finished when the hotel porter, with a touch of the hat that drew a quarter from Phil’s pocket, handed him the key of his trunk, and announced that it awaited him in the Canadian Pacific station. So Phil strolled down to the superb building that rears its massive granite front like that of a mediæval castle a short distance below the Windsor, bought his ticket, and checked his trunk to Victoria. Then, for twenty dollars more, he engaged a lower berth in a sleeping-car that would run to Vancouver without change.

These expenditures reduced his available cash to a one-hundred-dollar bill and a twenty. As the latter would be needed for meals, etc., en route, he tucked it into a vest pocket, but the larger bill he restored to his pocket-book, which now looked so flat it was hard to realize it was not empty.

While he was struggling to recommit this to the security of its safety-pins, and the sleeping-car clerk was watching him with a slight smile that caused the lad’s face to flush, he became conscious that a young fellow, apparently a few years older than himself, was standing near, and regarding his precautions for securing his money with something very like a sneer.

Instantly Phil was seized with a hot indignation, under the impulse of which he blurted out, “Well, sir! I trust that I afford you sufficient amusement to excuse your rudeness.”

“Excuse me,” said the young man. “Were you addressing me? I am glad you spoke, for I see by your ticket that we are to be travelling companions together across the continent. My name is Goldollar—Simon Goldollar—and I am from New York. I presume you also are from the States?”

Completely disarmed by this polite speech, and feeling heartily ashamed of his own, Phil accepted the stranger’s advances, and allowed himself to be drawn into a conversation. At the same time he was not at all prepossessed by the other’s appearance or manner. Still, he reflected that if they were to be shut up in the same car together for the next five or six days, it would be much pleasanter that they should be on friendly terms than otherwise. So he told Mr. Simon Goldollar his own name, confided to him that he was on his way to Alaska, and they walked out of the station together.

“Going to Alaska, are you?” asked the stranger. “Taking the regular tourist trip, I suppose?”

“I don’t know what the regular trip is,” answered Phil. “I am going as far as Sitka.”

“Oh yes, just to the edge of Alaska, and then you’ll come away thinking that you know it all, like the rest of the tourists. If you’d studied the country as I have, you’d realize that Alaska is a mighty big place, and that you must spend months and thousands of dollars in travelling over it before you know much about it.”

“Have you done that?” asked Phil, simply.

“Well, no, not exactly; but I’m expecting to in the near future—that is,” he added, with a slight air of confusion, “I have particular reasons for wishing to take the trip, and if things work out all right I hope to be able to do it. By-the-way, I suppose you’ve laid in your supply of hardware?”

“Hardware?” repeated Phil, in a puzzled tone.

“Yes; wet goods, you know. Montreal’s the very best place for providing the stock.”

“I can’t imagine what you mean.”

Again a slight sneer flitted across Mr. Simon Goldollar’s face as he explained that “hardware” and “wet goods” were but polite terms for liquor, with a flask of which every “travelling gent” should provide himself before going aboard a train.

“I don’t see why liquor should be more necessary on board a train than anywhere else,” said Phil.

“Nor I,” replied Simon Goldollar; “for to me it’s just as necessary in one place as another.”

“And as I am not a ‘travelling gent,’” continued Phil, “and have never touched liquor in my life, and don’t ever intend to, I can’t see why I should provide myself with a flask of it.”

“How about being ready for your friends?”

“I am always ready for my friends, and glad to see them, and willing to treat them to the best of everything I may happen to have; but none of my friends have any more use for liquor than I have.”

“You and your friends must be a precious spooney lot,” muttered Simon Goldollar to himself; but aloud he said: “Oh, well, you are young yet, and not rid of your Yankee notions. Wait till you’ve been out on the coast a few months, and you’ll sing a different tune.”

“I guess not,” replied Phil, stoutly. “For I’m singing the same tune now that my father sings, and he has been out on the ‘coast,’ as you call it, for a good many years, off and on.”

“Well, you must admit that it’s a mighty good medicine to have along, and a fine thing for sickness.”

“Yes,” replied the lad, dryly; “I have often heard my father say that liquor was one of the best things in the world for sickness; but that he would rather not be made sick in that way.”

“I suppose your father doesn’t smoke either?”

“Oh yes he does; he smokes a cigar every evening after dinner.”

“Then of course you follow his example, and do the same thing?”

“Then of course I do nothing of the kind. I don’t know what I may do when I become twenty-one years of age; but I gave him my promise long ago never to smoke even a cigarette until that time. Besides, I’m on a football team, and a fellow who smoked would be fired out of that quick enough, I can tell you. Now, as we are at my hotel, I think I will go in and write some letters.”

Phil said this with the hope of shaking off the companion whose presence was anything but agreeable to him; but the other remarked:

“Oh! you put up at the swell hotel, do you? Well, I guess I’ll go in and write a letter too.”

“I didn’t know you were stopping here. I didn’t see you at breakfast,” said Phil.

“No, nor you won’t see me at dinner, either, unless some of my friends happen to give me an invite. All the same, I write my letters to the firm from here, and send in my expense bills from here. That’s the only way to make money on the road nowadays. Charge up first-class hotel prices, live at restaurants, and pocket the difference. See? That is the reason I’m going West by this route, too,” continued Simon Goldollar, who seemed anxious to show off his smartness before this new and evidently very verdant acquaintance. “The scheme is to charge up the highest possible railroad fares, and travel on scalped tickets. Oh, it’s a great racket! and the sooner you get onto it the better for your pocket-book.”

“Thank you,” answered Phil, in a tone that expressed as much of disgust as he could throw into it. “Whenever I find it necessary to make my living by turning ‘road-agent,’ which is what I suppose you mean by ‘going on the road,’ I will remember your advice; but now you really must excuse me if I leave you for a while.”

With this, and without giving the other a chance to reply, the lad turned and left the hotel. He took a long walk through the city, and when he returned for dinner was thankful to find no trace of his late companion. “I’ve almost a mind to stop over and take to-morrow’s train in order to avoid him,” he said to himself; but reflecting that this would be cowardly as well as extravagant, he decided to adhere to his original plan.

[CHAPTER IV]
ACROSS THE CONTINENT

In his journeyings thus far it may have been remarked that our careless hero had been a model of prudence and forethought. About this time, however, his old habits began to assert themselves. Thus, before the end of the first day out from Montreal his belongings were so scattered from one end of the sleeping-car to the other, that its good-natured black porter was kept constantly on the alert gathering them up and restoring them to their owner. At the same time, by his cheerful disposition and obliging manners the young fellow made himself a universal favorite. Especially was this the case with the weary mothers, whose restless children he was always ready to amuse and entertain.

To these children the quaintly carved tooth that dangled from his watch-chain was a source of never-failing delight. It was also considered a great curiosity, and examined with interest by the older passengers, while Simon Goldollar, who managed to maintain an appearance of intimacy with its owner, asked many questions concerning it. “Was it not a witch charm? Did its engraved figures represent totems?” etc., to all of which Phil had to plead ignorance.

One day he detached it from its chain to give it to a fretful baby as a plaything. At the same time he gave his watch to another child. Then, attracted by a bit of scenery that was best visible from the smoking-room at the rear end of the car, he went off and forgot all about them.

A few hours later one mother returned his watch to him; while the other said that, after her infant had nearly choked himself in trying to swallow the fur-seal’s tooth, she had taken it from him and laid it on the window-sill of Phil’s seat. In the mean time the berths had been made up for the night, and it was nowhere to be seen. Its owner good-naturedly said, “No matter, it will turn up again somewhere,” and thought no more about it until the next day. Then a vigorous search was instituted for the missing trinket, but with no avail. It was not to be found, nor was it again seen during the remainder of the journey.

Phil felt badly over the loss of the fur-seal’s tooth, because the universal interest it had excited led him to believe it more valuable than he had at first supposed. Also because of Serge Belcofsky, of whom it had been a constant reminder, and whose good qualities grew more and more apparent to our hero with the lapse of time and distance. He wondered if any one could have stolen the bit of carved ivory; but being of a singularly honest and unsuspicious nature, he dismissed this thought almost before it was formed.

So the eventful journey wore on, with each day more full of strange and wonderful interest than its predecessor. The scenery of the first day was an almost unbroken forest with queer settlements at wide intervals. It was rather monotonous, and to beguile the time Simon Goldollar induced Phil to join him and two others in a game of cards. The lad did not care much for the game, and only entered it rather than appear ill-natured or disobliging. When at the end of an hour he expressed a wish to withdraw, Simon Goldollar informed him that he could do so upon payment of the two dollars he had lost, as they had been playing for a shilling a point. At this Phil sprang from his seat in a sudden fury.

“So you are a gambler, are you! And I have been led blindfolded into your trap!” he cried. “Very well, sir; there is your wretched money; and now, if you ever mention cards to me again, or in fact if you dare speak to me on any subject, I will knock you down.” With this the lad flung two silver dollars upon the table and left the room, almost choked with the tumult of his feelings.

He heard Goldollar’s sneering laugh and his remark of “Pretty loud crowing for a bantam, eh?” and he heard one of the other men say something about its being too bad; but he did not wait for anything more.

Afterwards both the strangers apologized to him for their apparent share in the deception, saying that Goldollar had told them before the game began that it was understood by all they were to play for money. The author of this unpleasant scene did not, however, see fit to offer any apology for his share in it, nor did he and Phil exchange aught save black looks for several days.

Our lad was too manly a fellow to allow an incident of this kind to affect him for long, and he was soon enjoying the trip as keenly as ever.

The second day was passed amid the rugged scenery of Thunder Bay and the northern shores of Lake Superior, greatest of fresh-water seas. It was followed by their arrival in the early morning of the third day at Winnipeg, the old Fort Garry of fur-trading times. This fort had played so conspicuous a part in the stories of Phil’s boyhood that he gazed about him on all sides with an eager interest, and was disappointed to find the Hudson Bay Company’s post of romance grown into a fair and wide-spread city.

Here, with the crossing of the Red River, the forest country ended, and the treeless plains of Manitoba, once the range of countless buffalo, but now one of the greatest wheat regions of the world, began. As the train rushed across the vast breezy levels at an accelerated speed the far-reaching view with its myriad objects of interest was exhilarating in the extreme, and Phil gazed upon it for the greater part of two days without a trace of weariness. Here were old buffalo trails and wallows; there a fleeing band of antelope or a skulking coyote. Now a party of mounted Blackfeet in all the bravery of savage decoration would dash up to some little station at which the train was stopping. A few minutes later it would whirl past a cluster of their tepees looking exactly like the pictures of Indian camps he had pored over so often in his books. He saw cowboys, too, and great herds of cattle. He saw a vast wheat ranch, containing one hundred square miles of land, divided into fields of such size that in them the ploughing of a single furrow was a day’s work for a man and team.

At length, during the morning of the fourth day, soon after leaving the brisk little city of Calgary, Phil caught a glimpse, far ahead, of something that caused him to rub his eyes and look again. It was high up and of dazzling whiteness. It could not be a cloud. No, it must be snow. Yes, it actually was a snow-capped peak of the Rocky Mountains. As the discovery burst upon him in all its magnitude Phil uttered a shout of delighted wonder that attracted the attention of every one in the car, and all the passengers crowded to the windows to look.

From this on all was excitement, which, as the wondrous panorama of glistening peaks was unfolded and uplifted, until finally the train plunged into their very midst, increased with each moment. Now an open observation-car was attached to the train, and as it sped up the narrow valley of the crystal Bow, the ever-changing and ever-fascinating view was unobstructed. On they hurried, past Banff, with its sky-piercing peaks, its boiling springs, and its stately hotel; and past Laggan, the point of departure on horseback for the marvellously beautiful lakes of the clouds. Ten miles further on the Great Divide was crossed, and with a thrill our young traveller realized that the rivulet flowing beside the track was the head-waters of the Kicking Horse, a tributary of the mighty Columbia, and the first Pacific waters he had ever seen.

From here, for a hundred miles down the western slope of the Rockies, and over the majestic Selkirk Range, the scenery was so indescribably grand, so filled with lofty mountain peaks, fathomless gorges, gleaming glaciers, and foaming cataracts, that no words can tell of it, and even the enthusiasts of the observation-car were awed into silence. As for Phil Ryder, who had never even imagined anything so marvellous, he sat and gazed alone, and with swelling heart, at the wonders unfolded by each succeeding moment. The majesty of that day’s scenery was so overpowering that he was actually glad when night came and hid it from his wearied eyes.

On the following day, which was to be his last on the train, the strange grandeur of the mighty Fraser Cañon was almost as bewildering as that of the mountains already left behind, and the lad drew a long sigh of relief when the train finally emerged from it, and entered the comparatively level country that stretched away to the western ocean.

At one pretty little station where the train stopped for dinner, Phil, having exhausted his change, was obliged to take the one-hundred-dollar bill from his securely hidden pocket-book. Simon Goldollar watched him, and when, in the haste of departure, the lad thrust both his wallet and the wad of bills he had just received in change into one of the pockets of his overcoat, instead of putting it into the place where his treasure had been kept, the former noted this action also. A minute later the overcoat was carelessly flung into a seat of the sleeper, while its young owner joined a group of passengers who had called to him from one end of the car.

At the last stop before reaching Vancouver, Simon Goldollar approached Phil, who was walking beyond the end of the platform. “Let’s make up and be friends,” he said, extending his hand. “I don’t bear no hard feelings, and to prove it I’ll put you onto a big scheme by which you can double your money in no time. Buy opium in Victoria, run it into Alaska, and—”

“Mr. Simon Goldollar,” interrupted Phil, regarding the other with blazing eyes, “[I once said that if you ever spoke to me again I would knock you down], and I never go back on my word.”

[“‘I SAID IF YOU SPOKE TO ME AGAIN I WOULD KNOCK YOU DOWN’”]

With this the young athlete stepped forward with so threatening and determined an aspect, that Mr. Simon Goldollar, with one terrified glance, sought safety in precipitate flight, nor did he pause until he had gained the shelter of the train.

[CHAPTER V]
FIVE BULL’S-EYES IN SIX SHOTS

“It doesn’t seem exactly the thing to frighten a fellow half to death just when he is making friendly advances to you,” reflected Phil, as he watched the flying figure of Mr. Goldollar, “but what else could I do? I had to try and keep my promise. Besides, how dared he to insult me with such a proposal? The idea of suggesting that I should turn smuggler!” At this thought the lad’s blood boiled with such indignation that he felt inclined to follow Mr. Goldollar, and still further impress upon him the lesson he had just received. Before he could carry out this intention, however, the train started, and he was obliged to let well enough alone, at least for the present.

As for Mr. Simon Goldollar, his feelings had received a much greater hurt than that with which his body had been threatened, and as he slipped into a seat in the smoking-car, as far as possible from the one occupied by Phil, his dark features were distorted with rage.

“I’ll pay you for this outrage, very suddenly and with compound interest, you canting young hypocrite you!” he muttered, at the same time shaking his fist vaguely in the direction of the sturdy lad, against whom in a fair fight he would have stood no better chance than an infant. He did not re-enter the sleeper until after the train reached Vancouver, so that Phil did not see him again, and wondered without much caring whether he had not been left behind.

During the last few miles of that eventful overland journey Phil was so busy gathering up his belongings, repacking his bag, and bidding farewell to those of his fellow-passengers who were to stop in Vancouver, that he forgot all about the scenery. Consequently when the train stopped for the last time, and the porter called out: “Vancouver! Change here for Victoria, Japan, and China!” it seemed incredible that the sparkling waters visible through the car window could be those of the Pacific Ocean.

They were, though, or rather they were the waters of Burrard Inlet, an arm of Puget Sound, on which the new but rapidly growing city of Vancouver is located. Just across the wharf, at one side of which the train had stopped, lay a great white clipper-bowed steamship, bearing the name in letters of gold Empress of India. She was one of the fleet of superb ocean flyers that form the Canadian Pacific’s connecting link between America and Asia. The mere sight of this beautiful ship, and of the Japanese stewards and cabin-boys clustered on her snowy decks, made Phil feel as though he had indeed joined the great army of “globe-trotters.”

There was but scant time, though, for romantic reveries concerning the Orient, for near the Empress lay the Premier, another though much smaller white steamer, waiting to convey to Victoria such passengers and mail as the train had brought.

This boat had hardly left the wharf, with Phil comfortably seated on deck, his bag and gun beside him, and his overcoat lying across his knees, before the excitable lad sprang to his feet and ran to the opposite side. He had caught a glimpse as the steamer swung of what he believed to be a canoe. [Yes! it was—a genuine Haida dugout] with projecting beaklike prow, and an Indian crew who were wielding queer-looking sharp-pointed paddles. It was precisely like the pictures in books of British Columbian travel, and Phil recalled at once that it was fashioned out of one of the huge straight-grained logs of yellow cedar that are only found on that coast. He remembered, too, that after it had been laboriously hollowed out, and shaped with fire, adze, and hatchet, it was steamed by means of hot stones and boiling water, until its sides could be flared out so as to give it beam and stability. They are held in this position by means of crossbars; but the process renders the wood so liable to split if exposed for any length of time to a hot sun, that when hauled up on a beach the canoe must be entirely covered with mats or blankets, and while in use water must every now and then be dashed over its sides to keep them damp.

[“YES! IT WAS—A GENUINE HAIDA DUGOUT”]

While Phil was watching this canoe, and wishing he were in it instead of on board a prosaic every-day steamer, a gentleman approached him holding something in his hand, and saying, “I believe this is yours?”

It was a pocket-book.

“I don’t think it can be mine, sir,” began Phil, politely, at the same time clapping a hand to the side where he was accustomed to feel every now and then for his precious money. An expression of comical dismay overspread his face. “Good gracious! yes it is, too!” he cried, extending his hand for his property.

“I thought it must be,” replied the gentleman, with a smile, “for I saw it drop from your overcoat as you left your seat to come to this side of the boat. It seems to me, though, that an overcoat is hardly the proper place for carrying a pocket-book. One is so apt to leave it lying round.”

“That is just what I think, sir,” answered Phil, with a laughably rueful expression of countenance. “I didn’t mean to leave it there, I can assure you, and didn’t know that I had. The sleeping-car porter picked it up from the floor while I was doing up my things, and as I had my overcoat on I just stuck it into one of the pockets for a second, meaning to place it where it belonged directly afterwards. Then we got in, and with the confusion I forgot all about it. But I will put it away safe enough now, and I am awfully obliged to you, sir, for I couldn’t well afford to lose what it contains.”

Thus saying, Phil restored the wallet that his carelessness had so nearly lost to his inner vest pocket, and after a prolonged struggle succeeded in securing it there with his aunt Ruth’s trusty safety-pins.

The gentleman watched this proceeding with an amused smile, but with words of commendation for the safety-pin plan. “I am glad to see,” he said, “that you are, after all, an unusually prudent and careful lad, for I feared you might be one of the heedless tribe, and might thereby get into trouble. May I inquire if you are going to stop in Victoria?”

“Only until the Alaska steamer comes along,” answered Phil. “I am on my way to Sitka, where I am to join my father.”

“Indeed!” exclaimed the stranger. “Then we shall see a great deal of each other, for I, too, am on my way to Sitka. In fact, that is my home. If you will allow me, I will hand you my card.”

On the card which Phil thus received and then thrust into a pocket of his own card-case was engraved simply “Mr. Arthur Ames,” and of course the lad had no means of knowing that his new acquaintance was one of the most eminent and best-known men in the whole Northwest. As he handed out his own card in return, Mr. Ames said: “I wondered if I should not know your father, and now I see that I do. That is, if he is Mr. John Ryder, the mining expert.”

“Yes, sir, that is his name,” replied Phil, delighted at this recognition.

“Then I am doubly glad to make your acquaintance, Mr. Ryder, and am obliged to the fortunate incident of the pocket-book that led to it.”

Phil was greatly pleased with this new friend, who was able to point out everything of interest, and was possessed of such stores of information concerning Alaska, that the lad looked forward with pleasing anticipations to travelling in his company.

It was long after dark before the electric lights of Victoria were sighted, and Phil expressed disappointment that he could see nothing of the city.

“You will have plenty of time to-morrow,” suggested Mr. Ames, “for our steamer is not due to arrive here from Port Townsend until about this time to-morrow evening, and she will remain here an hour or so after getting in. So you will have an opportunity to visit Beacon Hill Park, Dunsmuir Castle, the museum, and go out to ’Squimault as well. I wish I might act as your guide to the city, but I cannot, and shall not even see you at your hotel, as I must stay at the house of a friend, with whom I have an amount of important business to transact that will occupy every moment until the steamer leaves. After that we shall see a great deal of each other, I trust.”

“Indeed I hope we shall, sir,” replied Phil, heartily, as he mentally contrasted this new travelling acquaintance with the one made in Montreal.

“By-the-way,” continued Mr. Ames, “if you have a trunk, and care to intrust your check to me, I will have it put aboard the Alaska steamer with mine, and will guarantee its safe delivery in Sitka. By that means you will be saved a tedious trip down to the outer wharf to-morrow, and will gain at least two hours of extra time for sight-seeing.”

The stranger had already inspired our hero with such perfect confidence that he handed him his trunk check without the slightest hesitation, at the same time expressing his gratitude for the kindness thus shown him.

A few minutes later the Premier was made fast to her wharf at the inner end of a tiny but perfectly protected harbor, at the head of which stands the capital of British Columbia. Here the newly made acquaintances parted, with promises of again meeting on the following evening. Mr. Ames was driven away to the house of his friend, while Phil took a carriage for the Driard, the hotel at which his father had instructed him to stop so long as he remained in Victoria. Here he found a letter from Sitka, that had been brought down by the last steamer. It was such a loving epistle, and was so filled with the joyful anticipations of a speedy meeting, that Phil was moved to sit down and answer it at once, regardless of the fact that his reply could only reach its destination by the same steamer on which he expected to travel.

Having thus got himself into the mood for writing, Phil also indited a long letter, descriptive of his journey thus far, to his aunt Ruth. In this he made the triumphant assertion that his pocket-book was still securely fastened in its proper place by the safety-pins to whose sturdy clasp she had intrusted it, and that up to date he had not lost a single thing. In making this assertion the boastful lad entirely forgot the fur-seal’s tooth, though he was soon to have ample cause to remember it.

Both these letters being mailed in the hotel box before he went to bed, Phil slept the sleep of him who has a clear conscience, and awoke the next morning as light-hearted and happy a lad as could be found in all British Columbia. After breakfast he took a stroll down Government Street and into the Chinese quarter, with the queer sights of which he was intensely amused and interested.

On his way back he stopped for a few minutes in a rifle gallery that presented an open front to the street. Here he was tempted by the bad marksmanship displayed by a group of sailors to show them a bit of Yankee shooting, and was lucky enough to make five bull’s-eyes in succession out of six shots. This performance was greeted by a round of hearty cheers from the sailors, and these were repeated when Phil distributed among them the prize of cigars by which his skill was rewarded.

In the afternoon he rode by electric car out to Esquimault, or ’Squimault, as the splendidly fortified harbor and British naval station of the Pacific coast is called. Here he went on board the Royal Arthur, one of the finest cruisers in her Majesty’s navy, and was shown all over the ship by a marine especially detailed for that purpose. Then he made the acquaintance of a middy, who invited him to dine with the steerage mess, and he had altogether such a fine time that the sun set long before he thought it ought to, and it was dark before he finally returned to his hotel.

Learning, by inquiry, that the Alaskan steamer was in, and that he had barely time to catch her, he ordered a cab to be in readiness, rushed up-stairs for his things, and then back again to the office, where it only remained for him to pay his bill and be off.

[CHAPTER VI]
PHIL’S SAD PREDICAMENT

As Phil stood in front of the hotel desk striving to unclasp the bewildering safety-pins that held his pocket-book so firmly a heavy hand was laid on his shoulder, and a stern voice asked if he was Philip Ryder.

“Yes, that is my name,” replied Phil, looking around inquiringly.

“Very well,” said the owner of the voice; “then I shall have to ask you to come with me.”

“I haven’t time,” replied the lad, “and, besides, I wouldn’t go anywhere in a strange city at this hour of night with a person whom I do not know.”

“I guess you’ll come,” retorted the man, with a grim smile, “when I inform you that I am an officer with a warrant for your arrest, and that you are wanted at the central police station.”

“Nonsense!” cried Phil, stoutly; “you’ve made some mistake and got hold of the wrong party. I haven’t done anything to be arrested for. I’m an American citizen on my way to Alaska, and I’ve only barely time to catch the steamer now. So I must request you not to detain me any longer with this foolishness, or you may have cause to regret having done so.”

“I’ll risk it,” was the self-contained reply, “and I doubt very much if you will start for Alaska to-night, or for some nights to come. You know me,” he added, turning to the hotel clerk, who was regarding this scene as coolly as though it were nothing unusual to him, and as though the heart of the lad who a minute before had been so buoyant with hope and happiness were not near to breaking with an undefined agony of apprehension.

“Yes, I know you,” answered the clerk, “and whatever you do is all right. You’d better go with him quietly,” he added, turning to Phil, “for it won’t do you any good to make a kick.”

“But what am I arrested for?” cried Phil, with one more despairing effort to solve this horrible mystery. “Of what crime am I accused, and who is my accuser?”

“It is not my business to say,” replied the officer, “but under the circumstances I don’t mind telling you that the charge is an attempt at felonious assault, and that the complainant’s name is Goldollar.”

“Oh!” gasped Phil, as this light was thrown upon the situation. And then, eagerly, “But I can explain all that in a minute.”

“Not here,” said the officer; “this is neither the time nor the place. You must come with me, and at once too,” he added, sternly, as he glanced at the little group of curious spectators gathering in the hotel office. “Now don’t try to resist or make a scene, for it won’t do the slightest good, and will only get you into further trouble.”

So Phil Ryder went out into the night a friendless prisoner in a strange city, leaving his travelling-bag, rifle, and overcoat behind him, the clerk remarking significantly that he would take good care of them until they should be called for.

No word was spoken between the officer and his prisoner as they passed through the brilliantly lighted streets until they finally reached the police station, and the latter stood before the sergeant’s desk, behind which that functionary was prepared, pen in hand, to enter a record of this case in his blotter. Then a torrent of words sprang to Phil’s lips. He told his story with such evident honesty and pleading anguish of soul that even the grizzled sergeant, accustomed as he was to scenes of this kind, was moved by it. “It does seem hard,” he said, when Phil paused, more for want of breath than anything else, “that a young gent like you should be compelled to pass a night in the cooler. If you had any one to go on your bail now, we might get the justice to give you a private examination, late as it is, and perhaps he’d accept a bond for the night.”

“But I haven’t. I don’t know a soul in the city,” answered Phil, despondently. “How much do you think the bail would be?” he asked, with a sudden inspiration.

“Oh, I don’t know. Maybe not more than a hundred or so.”

“I have that much right here with me!” cried Phil, eagerly, “and I’d gladly give every cent of it rather than pass a night in a cell. That would be too awful, and it doesn’t seem as though I could bear it.”

“Let us see your money,” said the sergeant, with a caution bred of long experience.

With eager but trembling fingers Phil fumbled at the hateful safety-pins that seemed determined never to relax their hold of his pocket-book. At length he drew it forth, and opened it with an air of anxious triumph. At least one of his assertions was about to be proved true.

Suddenly his face turned to a deathly pallor. The empty wallet, in which no bill remained, dropped from his nerveless grasp, and he clutched wildly at the rail of the sergeant’s desk for support.

“I have been robbed!” he gasped. “Robbed of every cent I had in the world. What shall I do? What shall I do?”

The sergeant and officer exchanged significant glances, and for a few minutes only the ticking of a big clock and the boy’s panting breathing that closely resembled sobbing broke the painful stillness.

“You certainly seem to be playing to hard luck, young fellow,” remarked the sergeant at length, “and I don’t mind saying that I’m sorry for you. You appear to be an honest, well-meaning sort of a chap, too. Now, I’ll tell you what I’ll do. Though appearances are often deceitful and I’ve been misled by them a many times, I’m going to trust ’em once more. So, if you’ll give me your word not to make any disturbance, nor the slightest effort to escape, I’ll let you occupy my room, where you’ll find a bed that is fairly comfortable. You can spend the night there, and it will be better than being locked up in a cell, anyway. Maybe in the morning something will turn up that will straighten matters out for you.”

Phil’s gratitude for this favor was expressed more by looks than by words, though he did manage to give the required promise.

Then he was shown into a small bare room, where, flinging himself face downward on a little iron bedstead that stood in one corner, he lay for a long time motionless and apparently unconscious. At length he began once more to think, but his thoughts were of the most gloomy and despairing nature. Was ever a fellow in such a scrape? What should he do? Was there any way in which he could get out of it? He could not communicate with his father, for the steamer must already have left. He had no friends in Victoria. He had no money. No money! For the first time in his life Phil realized the full horror of being absolutely penniless. He had not even money to buy breakfast with in case he should be set free on the following day. Perhaps a prison would prove his only refuge after all.

Where could that money have gone to, though? Some one must have taken it; but who, and when? It wouldn’t have been Mr. Ames, of course; nor the porter of the sleeping-car. No; his very face was a guarantee of honesty. Could it have been Simon Goldollar? It must have been; he was just the mean, low-down fellow who would do such a thing; still, what chance had he had? Phil couldn’t remember that he had had any. Still, the money must have been taken by some one, and while the pocket-book was in some other place than the one provided for it by his aunt Ruth, too. Oh, why had he forgotten her warnings and neglected her advice! Dear Aunt Ruth! How much better she knew him than he knew himself. Well, this was a lesson that should last him his life time. Never again would he get into such a scrape through carelessness. Never!

At length the unhappy boy fell asleep, and when he awoke it was daylight. An officer brought him a bowl of strong black coffee and a plain but plentiful breakfast of porridge. Phil drank the coffee, but could not eat. Then he waited, pale with anxiety, for the unknown fate in store for him. After a while he was summoned outside and conducted to a court-room. There he was placed in the prisoners’ dock, together with the previous night’s occupants of the station-house cells, men and women. He shrank as far as possible from contact with them, and they jeered at him. His case was one of the first called, but as no one appeared against him he was ordered to step aside and wait awhile longer.

Finally, last of all, Phil’s turn came again.

“What is the charge against this prisoner?” demanded the judge.

“It is a case of assault, your Honor,” answered the officer who had made the arrest.

“Let me look at the warrant. H’m, yes. Well, is the complainant Goldollar here in person, or represented by counsel?”

To this no one made reply, but another officer whispered something to the judge.

“H’m! Left the city, has he, without making arrangements to press the charge? Very well, then, the case is dismissed. You may go, young man, but I warn you that you have had a narrow escape, a very narrow escape, and you had better never let me see you here again.”

A minute later poor bewildered Phil found himself out in the sunlight, once more free to go where he pleased and do what he liked. For a few blocks he walked mechanically, without taking note of where he was going. Then, with a forlorn hope that the steamer might still be waiting, he directed his steps towards the outer wharf. The walk was a long one, and at its end his worst fears were confirmed. The Alaskan steamer had indeed come in, and gone out again during the night. There would not be another for at least ten days. His trunk had gone, too, as he discovered by finding a porter who distinctly remembered seeing one marked “Philip Ryder, Sitka, Alaska,” put aboard the ship. Mr. Ames—Judge Ames, they called him—had also departed for his northern home, as several persons could testify.

Now not a shred of hope was left. What would Mr. Ryder think, and what would he do when the steamer arrived in Sitka without the son for whom he was so anxiously watching? He was certain to meet Judge Ames and to see the trunk. How terrible would be his anxiety! Would he come to Victoria by return steamer in search of his boy, or would he wait for news of him by the next boat? In the former case he could not possibly get here in less than two weeks, and perhaps not so soon. At any rate Phil was thrown upon his own resources for many days to come, and during that time how should he obtain food and lodging?

While vaguely trying to form some plan, he walked slowly back into the city, blind to the beauty of the day, deaf to the singing of birds, and careless of the scent of myriads of flowers which form so beautiful and striking a feature of this far western city. Here was the situation with which this story opens and to which we have been so long in coming.

Hardly noticing the direction of his footsteps, Phil reached Government Street, and walked slowly down that busy thoroughfare. Suddenly there came a quick footfall behind him, a hand was clapped on his shoulder, and a hearty friendly voice exclaimed, “[Is it Philip Ryder or his ghost?] Why, old fellow! what on earth are you doing here?”

[“‘IS IT PHILIP RYDER OR HIS GHOST!’”]

The poor lad’s heart gave a great throb of gratitude as he turned and found himself face to face with Serge Belcofsky.

[CHAPTER VII]
THE VALUE OF A TRUE FRIEND

The meeting of Phil Ryder and Serge Belcofsky, who had parted months before in far-away New London, and who now so unexpectedly ran across each other in the busiest street of the westernmost city of the continent, was one of the happiest that ever took place in Victoria. Phil was so overcome by it that for a moment his voice failed him, and he could only hold his friend’s hand in both of his, and gaze at him as though fearful that he might vanish as suddenly as he had appeared.

“Serge, old man,” he said at length, “you have come to me like an angel from heaven, for never in my life have I needed a friend as at this very minute. I never half appreciated you before, but you may be certain that I do now. Oh, my dear fellow! if you could only know one part of how glad I am to see you!”

“Why, what is the matter?” inquired Serge, anxiously. “Are you in trouble? Is there anything I can do to help you? How do you happen to be here of all places? The Seamew got in two days ago; but I didn’t find a single letter from New London, and I haven’t heard a word of news from there since we started for the coast.”

“Am I in trouble!” exclaimed Phil. “Well, I should say I am. I am in one of the very worst scrapes that ever a fellow got into. Can you help me? I rather think you can. I hope so, at any rate. You have helped me already more than I can tell. The mere sight of your face, the sound of your voice, and the clasp of your hand have banished half my troubles, and given me new courage to face the rest. Why, old man, a friend was what I needed more than anything in the world, and now that I have found one, everything seems possible.”

“You in trouble!” cried Serge, in amazement. It was hard to realize that this young hero of his admiration, the one who above all others had seemed so strong and self-reliant and free from care of any kind, could be in a position in which his humble aid could be of value.

“Indeed I am,” replied Phil; “and to begin with I haven’t a cent in the world, nor have I eaten a mouthful of food to-day. So if you have any money in your pockets, you will at once invite me to breakfast. After that I will tell you the whole story.”

“You poor old chap!” exclaimed Serge, to whom hunger was of all things the most unpleasant. “Of course I’ve got money”—he had just one dollar, which represented his entire stock of wealth—“and the ‘Poodle Dog’ is just around the corner.”

In another minute the lads were seated at a table in the best restaurant of Victoria, and Phil was giving the waiter a breakfast order that confirmed that individual in his previously formed opinion that Americans were not only the wealthiest people in the world, but were possessed of the most extraordinary appetites.

Although Serge, whose own breakfast had been eaten hours before, would willingly have shared another with his friend, a prudent regard for his finances compelled him to resist the temptation, and declare that he was not the least bit hungry. So he merely sat and watched with real pleasure Phil’s demolition of the very heartiest and most thoroughly enjoyable meal of his life. As he ate, his courage and natural buoyancy of spirits returned to him so fully, that when at length he pushed away his plate, declaring himself unable to eat another mouthful, he was again the self-reliant, independent, happy-go-lucky Phil Ryder whom Serge had known and admired in New London.

The bill for that breakfast amounted to exactly one dollar, and as Serge paid it, Phil wondered why he did not also tip the waiter, who had been unusually attentive. He was too polite to mention the matter, and concluded that his friend’s oversight must be the result of his early training.

Serge knew well enough what was expected of him, however, and felt uncomfortable until the restaurant was left behind and he was beyond reach of the waiter’s reproachful glance. “Now,” said he, as they gained the street, “let’s have your story. You haven’t told me one word of yourself and your troubles yet.”

“Troubles?” repeated Phil, inquiringly, as though such things and he were but the most distant of acquaintances. “Yes, of course, I have had some troubles; but they don’t bother me now half so much as they did. I’ll tell you all about them, though; but this is a poor place for talking. If you don’t mind we’ll go up to my room. It is close at hand, and we can be there in a minute. Then we can relate our several adventures, and discuss plans without fear of interruption.”

Why Phil had not returned to his hotel for breakfast the very first thing after being set at liberty he could not have explained; but hungry, friendless, and penniless as he was that morning, he could no more have entered the Driard dining-room than he could have begged for a meal at a private house. Now, however, the situation seemed to him so entirely different that he walked into the hotel office as coolly as a young millionaire, and with quite the air of one demanded the key of his room, ordered his bag sent up to it, and led the way to the elevator.

The clerk on duty, who happened to be the same who had witnessed his unpleasant encounter with an officer the evening before, regarded the young fellow with a mild surprise, but made no comment. He concluded that there must have been some mistake after all, but was too well trained in the hotel business to ask unpleasant questions of a guest. He did eye Serge a little curiously, for though the lad had on his best suit it was unmistakably the garb of a sailor.

As for the young Russo-American, he followed his friend into this swell hotel, listened to the orders that he issued, and which were so promptly obeyed, and finally accompanied him to his room with so comical an expression of bewilderment on his face that Phil noticed, and laughed at it.

“You are evidently thinking that my plea of poverty and these surroundings do not exactly match each other,” he said.

“Well, yes, I must confess—”

“That I appear very much like an impostor. But really I am not one, old man. I was in such a desperate fix when you turned up, like a blessed angel to help me out of it, that in an hour more, if left to my own devices, I believe I should have jumped overboard.”

“You would have done nothing of the kind,” cried Serge, indignantly. “You are no such coward as that, and I know it.”

“Well, perhaps not,” replied Phil. “But it seems to me that hunger with no prospect of its relief can make cowards of the bravest fellows. And I was hungry, awfully hungry.”

“I can well believe that,” laughed Serge, “after seeing you eat. But tell me, why do you stay in this hotel?”

“Because I have no other place to go to, and have no money with which to settle my bill in case I wish to leave.”

“But isn’t it awfully expensive?”

“Oh, I don’t know. I suppose they charge three or four dollars a day; but if it were only fifty cents a day I couldn’t pay it, and so would have to stay on all the same. I think it’s very lucky that I am stranded in so comfortable a place. But let me tell you the whole story from the beginning, and then you will see just what sort of a position I am in.”

So Phil related his recent experiences, and when he had finished Serge only asked,

“What has become of the fur-seal’s tooth I gave you, and which you used to wear on your watch-chain?”

“Lost it.”

“Then that accounts for everything.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean that, according to what the old chief who gave that tooth to my father told him, it is a most powerful charm for good or evil. He said that whoever gave it away gave good-luck with it. Whoever received it as a gift received good-luck. Whoever lost it lost his luck, and whoever stole it stole bad-luck that would follow him so long as he retained it in his possession. According to this you who have lost it are suffering the consequences.”