The Yukon Trail | Page 7

half-circle again. "Sorry you were too late for
the party, gentlemen,--most of you. I see three or four of you who were
'among those present.' It was a strictly exclusive affair. And now, if you
don't mind, I'll say good-night."

He turned on his heel, went up the stairway to the deck above, and
disappeared into his stateroom.
The rescued miner, propped against the cabin wall where he had been
placed, broke into sudden excited protest. "Ach! He tried to drown me.
Mein head--he hold it under the water."
"Ain't that just like a Swede?" retorted the mate in disgust. "Mac saves
his life. Then the roughneck kicks because he got a belly full of Yukon.
Sure Mac soused him some. Why shouldn't he?"
"I ain't no Swede," explained the big miner sullenly.
The mate did not think it worth his while to explain that "Swede" was
merely his generic term of contempt for all foreigners.
CHAPTER III
THE GIRL FROM DROGHEDA
Gordon Elliot was too much of a night owl to be an early riser, but next
morning he was awakened by the tramp of hurried feet along the deck
to the accompaniment of brusque orders, together with frequent angry
puffing and snorting of the boat. From the quiver of the walls he
guessed that the Hannah was stuck on a sandbar. The mate's language
gave backing to this surmise. Divided in mind between his obligation to
the sleeping passengers and his duty to get the boat on her way, that
officer spilled a good deal of subdued sulphurous language upon the
situation.
"All together now. Get your back into it. Why are you running around
like a chicken without a head, Reeves?" he snapped.
Evidently the deck hands were working to get the Hannah off by
poling.
Elliot tried to settle back to sleep, but after two or three ineffectual
efforts gave it up. He rose and did one or two setting-up exercises to

limber his joints. The first of these flashed the signal to his brain that he
was stiff and sore. This brought to mind the fight on the hurricane deck,
and he smiled. His face was about as mobile as if it were in a plaster
cast. It hurt every time he twitched a muscle.
The young man stepped to the looking-glass. Both eyes were blacked,
his lip had been cut, and there was a purple weal well up on his left
cheek. He stopped himself from grinning only just in time to save
another twinge of pain.
"Some party while it lasted. I never saw more willing mixers.
Everybody seemed anxious to sit in except Mr. Wally Selfridge," he
explained to his reflection. "But Macdonald is the class. He's there with
both right and left. That uppercut of his is vicious. Don't ever get in the
way of it, Gordon Elliot." He examined his injuries more closely in the
glass. "Some one landed a peach on my right lamp and the other is in
mourning out of sympathy. Oh, well, I ain't the only prize beauty on
board this morning." The young man forgot and smiled. "Ouch! Don't
do that, Gordon. Yes, son. 'There's many a black, black eye, they say,
but none so bright as mine.' Now isn't that the truth?"
He bathed, dressed, and went out on the deck.
Early though he was, one passenger at least was up before him. The
young woman he had noticed last evening with the magazine was doing
a constitutional. A slight breeze was stirring, and as she moved against
it the white skirt clung first to one knee and then the other, moulding
itself to the long lines of her limbs with exquisite grace of motion. It
was as though her walk were the expression of a gallant and buoyant
personality.
Irish he guessed her when the deep-blue eyes rested on his for an
instant as she passed, and fortified his conjecture by the coloring of the
clear-skinned face and the marks of the Celtic race delicately stamped
upon it.
The purser came out of his room and joined Elliot. He smiled at sight
of the young man's face.

"Your map's a little out of plumb this morning, sir," he ventured.
"But you ought to see the other fellow," came back Gordon boyishly.
"I've seen him--several of him. We've got the best collection of bruises
on board I ever clapped eyes on. I've got to give it to you and Mr.
Macdonald. You know how to hit."
"Oh, I'm not in his class."
Gordon Elliot meant what he said. He was himself an athlete, had
played for three years left tackle on his college eleven. More than one
critic had picked him for the All-America team. He could do his
hundred in just a little worse than ten