act each morning was to check off the day and to count the days
that were left ere his partner would come booming down the Yukon
ice in the spring. Another whim of his was to permit no one to
sleep in the new cabin on the hill. It must be as fresh for her
occupancy as the square-hewed wood was fresh; and when it stood
complete, he put a padlock on the door. No one entered save
himself, and he was wont to spend long hours there, and to come
forth with his face strangely radiant and in his eyes a glad, warm
light.
In December he received a letter from Corry Hutchinson. He had
just seen Mabel Holmes. She was all she ought to be, to be
Lawrence Pentfield’s wife, he wrote. He was enthusiastic, and his
letter sent the blood tingling through Pentfield’s veins. Other
letters followed, one on the heels of another, and sometimes two or
three together when the mail lumped up. And they were all in the
same tenor. Corry had just come from Myrdon Avenue; Corry was just
going to Myrdon Avenue; or Corry was at Myrdon Avenue. And he
lingered on and on in San Francisco, nor even mentioned his trip to
Detroit.
L
awrence Pentfield began to think that his partner was a great deal
A Hyperborean Brew
28
in the company of Mabel Holmes for a fellow who was going east to
see his people. He even caught himself worrying about it at times,
though he would have worried more had he not known Mabel and Corry
so well. Mabel’s letters, on the other hand, had a great deal to
say about Corry. Also, a thread of timidity that was near to
disinclination ran through them concerning the trip in over the ice
and the Dawson marriage. Pentfield wrote back heartily, laughing
at her fears, which he took to be the mere physical ones of danger
and hardship rather than those bred of maidenly reserve.
But the long winter and tedious wait, following upon the two
previous long winters, were telling upon him. The superintendence
of the men and the pursuit of the pay streak could not break the
irk of the daily round, and the end of January found him making
occasional trips to Dawson, where he could forget his identity for
a space at the gambling tables. Because he could afford to lose,
he won, and “Pentfield’s luck” became a stock phrase among the faro
players.
His luck ran with him till the second week in February. How much
farther it might have run is conjectural; for, after one big game,
he never played again.
It was in the Opera House that it occurred, and for an hour it had
seemed that he could not place his money on a card without making
the card a winner. In the lull at the end of a deal, while the
game-keeper was shuffling the deck, Nick Inwood the owner of the
game, remarked, apropos of nothing:-
“I say, Pentfield, I see that partner of yours has been cutting up
monkey-shines on the outside.”
“Trust Corry to have a good time,” Pentfield had answered;
“especially when he has earned it.”
“Every man to his taste,” Nick Inwood laughed; “but I should
scarcely call getting married a good time.”
“Corry married!” Pentfield cried, incredulous and yet surprised out
of himself for the moment.
‘Sure,” Inwood said. “I saw it in the ‘Frisco paper that came in
over the ice this morning.”
“Well, and who’s the girl?” Pentfield demanded, somewhat with the
air of patient fortitude with which one takes the bait of a catch
and is aware at the time of the large laugh bound to follow at his
expense.
Nick Inwood pulled the newspaper from his pocket and began looking
it over, saying:-
“I haven’t a remarkable memory for names, but it seems to me it’s
something like Mabel–Mabel–oh yes, here it–‘Mabel Holmes,
daughter of Judge Holmes,’–whoever he is.”
Lawrence Pentfield never turned a hair, though he wondered how any
A Hyperborean Brew
29
man in the North could know her name. He glanced coolly from face
to face to note any vagrant signs of the game that was being played
upon him, but beyond a healthy curiosity the faces betrayed
nothing. Then he turned to the gambler and said in cold, even
tones:-
“Inwood, I’ve got an even five hundred here that says the print of
what you have just said is not in that paper.”
The gambler looked at him in quizzical surprise. “Go ‘way, child.
I don’t want your money.”
“I thought so,” Pentfield sneered, returning to the game and laying
a couple of bets.
Nick Inwood’s face flushed, and, as though doubting his senses, he
ran careful eyes over the print of a quarter of a column. Then be
turned on Lawrence Pentfield.
“Look here, Pentfield,” he said, in a quiet, nervous manner; “I
can’t allow that, you know.”
“Allow what?” Pentfield demanded brutally.
“You implied that I lied.”
“Nothing of the sort,” came the reply. “I merely implied that you
were trying to be clumsily witty.”
“Make your bets, gentlemen,” the dealer protested.
“But I tell you it’s true,” Nick Inwood insisted.
“And I have told you I’ve five hundred that says it’s not in that
paper,” Pentfield answered, at the same time throwing a heavy sack
of dust on the table.
“I am sorry to take your money,” was the retort, as Inwood thrust
the newspaper into Pentfield’s hand.
Pentfield saw, though he could not quite bring himself to believe.
Glancing through the headline, “Young Lochinvar came out of the
North,” and skimming the article until the names of Mabel Holmes
and Corry Hutchinson, coupled together, leaped squarely before his
eyes, he turned to the top of the page. It was a San Francisco
paper.
“The money’s yours, Inwood,” he remarked, with a short laugh.
“There’s no telling what that partner of mine will do when he gets
started.”
Then he returned to the article and read it word for word, very
slowly and very carefully. He could no longer doubt. Beyond
dispute, Corry Hutchinson had married Mabel Holmes. “One of the
Bonanza kings,” it described him, “a partner with Lawrence
Pentfield (whom San Francisco society has not yet forgotten), and
interested with that gentleman in other rich, Klondike properties.”
A Hyperborean Brew
30
Further, and at the end, he read, “It is whispered that Mr. and
Mrs. Hutchinson will, after a brief trip east to Detroit, make
their real honeymoon journey into the fascinating Klondike
country.”
“I’ll be back again; keep my place for me,” Pentfield said, rising
to his feet and taking his sack, which meantime had hit the blower
and came back lighter by five hundred dollars.
He went down the street and bought a Seattle paper. It contained
the same facts, though somewhat condensed. Corry and Mabel were
indubitably married. Pentfield returned to the Opera House and
resumed his seat in the game. He asked to have the limit removed.
“Trying to get action,” Nick Inwood laughed, as he nodded assent to
the dealer. “I was going down to the A. C. store, but now I guess
I’ll stay and watch you do your worst.”
This Lawrence Pentfield did at the end of two hours’ plunging, when
the dealer bit the end off a fresh cigar and struck a match as he
announced that the bank was broken. Pentfield cashed in for forty
thousand, shook hands with Nick Inwood, and stated that it was the
last time he would ever play at his game or at anybody’s else’s.
No one knew nor guessed that he had been hit, much less hit hard.
There was no apparent change in his manner. For a week he went
about his work much as he had always done, when he read an account
of the marriage in a Portland paper. Then he called in a friend to
take charge of his mine and departed up the Yukon behind his dogs.
He held to the Salt Water trail till White River was reached, into
which he turned. Five days later he came upon a hunting camp of
the White River Indians. In the evening there was a feast, and he
sat in honour beside the chief; and next morning he headed his dogs
back toward the Yukon. But he no longer travelled alone. A young
squaw fed his dogs for him that night and helped to pitch camp.
She had been mauled by a bear in her childhood and suffered from a
slight limp. Her name was Lashka, and she was diffident at first
with the strange white man that had come out of the Unknown,
married her with scarcely a look or word, and now was carrying her
back with him into the Unknown.
But Lashka’s was better fortune than falls to most Indian girls
that mate with white men in the Northland. No sooner was Dawson