How The Lord's Good Wheat Could Be
Made Into Stuff So Mysteriously Bad Is Past Finding Out.
The very
de'il, it would seem, in wicked anger and ingenuity, had been the
baker.
On our walk from Dease Lake to Telegraph Creek we had one of these
rough luncheons at three o'clock in the afternoon of the first day,
then walked on five miles to Ward's, where we were solemnly assured
that we could not have a single bite of either supper or breakfast,
but as a great favor we might sleep on his best gray bunk. We replied
that, as we had lunched at the lake, supper would not be greatly
missed, and as for breakfast we would start early and walk eight
miles to the next road-house. We set out at half-past four, glad to
escape into the fresh air, and reached the breakfast place at eight
o'clock. The landlord was still abed, and when at length he came to
the door, he scowled savagely at us as if our request for breakfast
was preposterous and criminal beyond anything ever heard of in all
goldful Alaska. A good many in those days were returning from the
mines dead broke, and he probably regarded us as belonging to that
disreputable class. Anyhow, we got nothing and had to tramp on.
As we approached the next house, three miles ahead, we saw the
tavern-keeper keenly surveying us, and, as we afterwards learned,
taking me for a certain judge whom for some cause he wished to avoid,
he hurriedly locked his door and fled.
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