The black-mustached gambler with the diamond shirt stud, the rugged woodsman with heart of gold and muscles of iron, the hero of the cool head and the hot passions—all the stereotypes of fiction—were missing. This boatload of adventurers headed for Alaska in derby hats and decent baggy-kneed suits and starched white collars. They were, for the most part, as unequipped as infants to battle the wilds that loomed ahead. Shoe salesmen, teachers, doctors, lawyers, small mechanics, clerks, bookkeepers, urged by the hunger for gold rather than by the spirit of adventure; farmers, some of them, weary of endless chores, poor crops, capricious weather. They were dazzled by the rainbow rumors that, four decades earlier, had lured their hardier forebears out of the eastern and midwestern States, over prairies and plains to the hills of California. Even the dozen or so women in The Business, who were on board the sour old tub, bore no resemblance to the frolicsome females of dance-hall fiction. They were deep-bosomed firm-fleshed women of almost matronly aspect. They had a look of robust health, as well they might, considering the bizarre pioneering they were to encounter. They were entering Alaska as members of the Oldest Profession. They were to become familiar enough with the sight of calloused male hands joggling mooseskin sacks filled with golden nuggets or yellow dust; pokes, these were called, and they made a pleasant sound as they were tossed, plumply, on a table or bar or bed. But eggs were a dollar each—if you could get one. A decade, two decades later—and certainly today—you were to see many of these gay girls magically transformed into wives and mothers, erring perhaps a little too much only on the side of respectability; officially presiding at club meetings, Sourdough gatherings, church-benefit suppers, arriving at these fiestas proudly bearing their contribution of a baked ham, or a meat loaf, or a devil’s-food cake, or a vast plateau of oven-baked beans.

Now, on shipboard, bound for the golden shores, they were an almost touching sight in their unnautical garments; trailing skirts, vast leg-o’-mutton sleeves, ruffled jabots, flower-laden hats, veils, kid gloves. You expected to see an incongruous parasol unfurled on a sunny deck corner, and, in fact, a girl whose delicate complexion was one of her trade assets did just that one day without causing any comment.

Through bits and snatches of Bridie Ballantyne’s reminiscence and chatter Chris Storm had learned much about the lively doings of these early Alaska girls. Thor and Czar had told her little of them, not so much through a prim sense of what was seemly for a teen-age grandchild, as because of the fact that the two men themselves had had as little as possible to do with the so-called dance-hall girls, either now on shipboard or later, on land. For the benefit of posterity Bridie should have talked into a tape recorder. There were no tape recorders in Baranof, so Bridie talked into the recording human ear of the eager fascinated girl, Christine.