THE BUNGALOW BOYS ALONG THE YUKON
by
DEXTER J. FORRESTER
Author of "The Bungalow Boys," "The Bungalow Boys Marooned inThe Tropics," "The Bungalow Boys in the Great Northwest," "TheBungalow Boys on the Great Lakes," etc., etc.
With Four Illustrations by Charles L. Wrenn
New YorkHurst & CompanyPublishers
Copyright, 1913byHurst & Company
CONTENTS
CHAPTER I. A MYSTERIOUS CRAFT II. NORTHWARD HO! III. MR. DACRE EXPLAINS IV. SANDY FINDS A MASCOT V. A MID-OCEAN HUNTING TRIP VI. A LIBATION TO THE TOTEM VII. AN ADVENTURE OF JACK'S VIII. "THE TALE OF A WHALE" IX. WILD WATERS X. THE TIDAL "BORE" XI. ADRIFT ON THE OCEAN XII. SHIFTING FOR THEMSELVES XIII. AN ISLAND LIFE XIV. THE GREAT BEARS OF KADIAK XV. HEMMED IN XVI. UNCERTAINTY XVII. THE YUKON ROVER XVIII. AN ENCOUNTER WITH THE NATIVES XIX. HARD ASHORE XX. DOWN THE GLACIER XXI. THE GRIP OF THE YUKON XXII. TWO STRANGE VISITORS XXIII. OLAF'S GREAT LESSON XXIV. ON THE PORCUPINE RIVER XXV. THE MYSTERIOUS MEN XXVI. THE DEAD MAN'S MINE XXVII. IN NEED OF A FRIEND XXVIII. --AND A FRIEND IN NEED XXIX. CONDEMNED TO THE MINES XXX. THE GRASP OF CIRCUMSTANCE
THE BUNGALOW BOYS ALONG THE YUKON
CHAPTER I.
A MYSTERIOUS CRAFT.
On a certain May afternoon, Tom Jessop, assigned to "cover" theSeattle waterfront for his paper, the _Seattle Post-Intelligencer_,had his curiosity aroused by a craft that lay at the Spring Streetdock. The vessel was newly painted, trim and trig in appearance andwas seemingly of about two thousand tons register. Amidships was asingle yellow funnel. From the aftermost of the two masts fluttered ablue flag with a square of white in the center. The reporter knew thatthis was the "Blue Peter," flown in token that the steamer was aboutto sail.
But the steamer, which bore the name of _Northerner_, flew no houseflag to indicate the line she belonged to, nor in the shipping news ofthe day did her name appear. The reporter scented a "story" at once.From some hangerson about the dock he found out that the strange crafthad formerly been the _James K. Thompson_, of San Francisco, in thecoastwise trade. She had been refitted and equipped at the Aetna IronWorks by her purchaser, a Mr. Chisholm Dacre. That was all that thelongshoremen could tell him.
On the bridge was a stalwart form in a goldlaced cap indicating therank of captain. By his side stood a well-built man of middle age witha crisp iron-gray beard neatly clipped and a sunburned face, fromwhich two keen blue eyes twinkled quizzically as he gazed down at thefigure of the reporter on the dock.
"Are you Mr. Dacre?" hailed the reporter, guessing that the beardedman was the _Northerner's_new owner.
"That is my name. What can I do for you?" was the rejoinder.
"My name is Jessop. Ship-news man for the _Post-Intelligencer_. Can Icome on board?"
"I am afraid not, Mr. Jessop," rejoined Mr. Dacre, whom our readersknow as the Bungalow Boys' uncle. "What do you want?"
"Why, your destination, the object of your voyage and so forth."
"That will have to remain my private property for the time being," wasthe reply in a kindly tone. "I appreciate your keenness in looking fornews, but I cannot divulge what you would like to know just now."
"It's no time for visiting, anyhow," said the sailor-like man at Mr.Dacre's side, who Tom Jessop had guessed was the skipper of themysterious craft, "we'll soon be getting under way."
The young reporter's face grew fiery red.
"What line are you?" he demanded. "What's the game, anyway?"
"I am not at liberty to answer questions."
"Private craft, eh? Tramp?"
There was almost a sneer in his tones as he spoke. He was trying tomake the captain angry and by that means get him to talk. But theother remained quite unruffled.
"Not in trade at all."
"Pleasure trip, eh? Why can't I come aboard?"
"Against orders."
Just then, and before the young newsgatherer could vent hisindignation further a cab came rattling up the dock and disgorged atthe foot of the _Northerner's_ gangplank three brightfaced,happy-looking lads. They were Tom and Jack Dacre and their inseparablechum, Sandy MacTavish, the voluble Scotch youth whose "thatch" andfreckles gave him his nickname. Jack was Tom's junior by two years,but he was almost as muscular and tall as his brother. Both lads werenephews of Mr. Dacre, who had given them their home in the SawmillValley of Maine where they had acquired the name of "Bungalow Boys,"by which they were known to a large circle of friends.
Tom Jessop turned from the captain to the new arrivals.
"Where is this vessel bound?" he asked.
"She clears this afternoon for Alaska," responded Tom Dacre.
The reporter's eye flashed a look of triumph upward at the bridge.
"In the northern trade?" he asked.
"I didn't say that," was the quiet rejoinder.
Tom Jessop began to get mad in good earnest. He swept his eyes overthe ship's decks. Amidships she carried an odd-looking pile of timberand metal.
"A small steamer in sections, eh?" he questioned with a knowing look.
"You're right as to that," spoke Tom.
"Going gold dredging?"
"I can't say."
"Training ship for kids, maybe?"
"Well, I know some folks who might take lessons in good mannerswithout its hurting them a bit," flashed Jack angrily.
The reporter changed his tone to a more conciliatory one.
"You might help a fellow out," he said. "What are your names?"
"I guess we can tell you that much," said Tom. "I am Tom Dacre, thisis my brother, Jack, and this is our friend, Mr. MacTavish."
The good-natured Sandy broke into a grin at this formal introduction.He was about to speak, but the reporter interrupted him.
"Dacre!" he exclaimed. "You're the kids that broke up that gang ofChinese smugglers on the Sound a while ago!"
"You're unco canny to guess it," said Sandy. "We're the boys."
At this instant another figure appeared on the bridge--a tall man withrough-looking clothes and a battered derby hat. It was the pilot. Headdressed Mr. Dacre.
"The tide serves, sir. If you are all ready, we'll get under way."
"Come, boys," hailed Mr. Dacre from the bridge. "Time to get aboard."
The three lads hastily gathered up the few packages that they had beenpurchasing at the last moment. The cabman was paid and they boundedwith elastic strides up the gangway. As they reached the end of it,the stern lines were cast off.
"Let go breast and bow lines," bawled the foghorn voice of the pilot.
The order was quickly executed. Jessop shouted something, but hisvoice was drowned in the three mournful blasts of her siren that werethe _Northerner's_ farewell to Seattle. But the instant the whistleceased and the tug that was to tow the _Northerner_ into the streambegan to puff energetically, he found his voice again.
"S-a-y!" he shouted across the widening breach between the steamer andthe dock.
"Hullo!" hailed back Tom, who, with his two companions, stood at therail amidships watching the city they were leaving.
"Won't you tell me anything about this trip?"
"That's just it," hurled back Tom at the top of his voice, "we don'tknow ourselves!"
"Well, I'll be jiggered!" exclaimed Tom Jessop as he turned away fromthe dock and the moving vessel, which he now felt certain held amystery within her gray steel sides.