Part 14 (1/2)
When we had slowly and painfully climbed to the top, we worked our way through a small, square hole and emerged into another stope, or level, and in a very dark part of it. Each man worked by the light of a single candle. They were stoping out ore and making it ready to be dumped into lower levels--from which it would finally be hoisted out of the mine in skips.
The ceiling was so low that we could walk only in a stooping position.
The laborers worked in the same position; and what with this discomfort and the insufficient light, it would seem that their condition was unenviable. Yet their countenances denoted neither dissatisfaction nor ill-humor.
”Well,” said the manager, presently, ”you can have it to say that you have been under the bay, anyhow.”
”_Under the_--”
”Yes; under Gastineau Channel. That's straight. It is directly over us.”
We immediately decided that we had seen enough of the great mine, and cheerfully agreed to the captain's suggestion that we return to the s.h.i.+p. We were compelled to descend by the perpendicular ladder; and the descent was far worse than the ascent had been.
On our way to the ”lift” by which we had made our advent into the mine, we met another small party. It was headed by a tall and handsome man, whose air of delicate breeding would attract attention in any gathering in the world. His distinction and military bearing shone through his greasy slicker and greasier cap--which he instinctively fumbled, in a futile attempt to lift it, as we pa.s.sed.
It was that brave and gallant explorer, Brigadier-General Greely, on his way to the Yukon. He was on his last tour of inspection before retirement. It was his farewell to the Northern country which he has served so faithfully and so well.
[Ill.u.s.tration: Copyright by E. A. Hegg, Juneau
EYAK LAKE, NEAR CORDOVA]
One stumbles at almost every turn in Alaska upon some world-famous person who has answered Beauty's far, insistent call. The modest, low-voiced gentleman at one's side at the captain's table is more likely than not a celebrated explorer or geologist, writer or artist; or, at the very least, an earl.
”After we've seen our pa.s.sengers eat their first meal,” said the chief steward, ”we know how to seat them. You can pick out a lady or a gentleman at the table without fail. A boor can fool you every place except at the table. We never a.s.sign seats until after the first meal; and oftener than you would suppose we seat them according to their manners at the first meal.”
I smiled and smiled, then, remembering the first meal on our steamer. It was breakfast. We had been down to the dining room for something and, returning, found ourselves in a mob at the head of the stairs.
There were one hundred and sixty-five pa.s.sengers on the boat, and fully one hundred and sixty of them were squeezed like compressed hops around that stairway. In two seconds I was a cl.u.s.ter of hops myself, simply that and nothing more. I do not know how the compressing of hops is usually accomplished; but in my particular case it was done between two immensely big and disagreeable men. They ignored me as calmly as though I were a little boy, and talked cheerfully over my head, although it soon developed that they were not in the least acquainted.
A little black-ringleted, middle-aged woman who seemed to be mounted on wires, suddenly squeezed her head in under their arms, simpering.
”Oh, Doctor!” twittered she, coquettishly. ”You are talking to _my husband_.”
”The deuce!” e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed the Doctor, but whether with evil intent or not, I could not determine from his face.
”Yes, truly. Doctor Metcalf, let me introduce my husband, Mr. Wildey.”
They shook hands on my shoulder--but I didn't mind a little thing like that.
”On your honeymoon, eh?” chuckled the Doctor, amiably. The other big man grew red to his hair, and the lady's black ringlets danced up and down.
”Now, now, Doctor,” chided she, shaking a finger at him,--she was at least fifty,--”no teasing. No steamer serenades, you know. I was on an Alaskan steamer once, and they pinned red satin hearts all over a bride's stateroom door. Just fancy getting up some morning and finding my stateroom door covered with red satin hearts!”
”I can smell mackerel,” said a shrill tenor behind me; and alas! so could I. If there be anything that I like the smell of less than a mackerel, it is an Esquimau hut only.
Somebody sniffed delightedly.
”Fried, too,” said a happy voice. ”Can't you squeeze down closer to the stairway?”