He puffed at his cigar and walked alone, brushing sleeves with men and
women whom he scarcely seemed to notice. But he was observant. He knew
the tourists almost without looking at them. The spirit of the north had
not yet seized upon them. They were voluble and rather excitedly
enthusiastic in the face of beauty and awesomeness. The sour-doughs were
tucked away here and there in shadowy nooks, watching in silence, or
they walked the deck slowly and quietly, smoking their cigars or pipes,
and seeing things beyond the mountains. Between these two, the newcomers
and the old-timers, ran the gamut of all human thrill for Alan, the
flesh-and-blood fiber of everything that went to make up life north of
Fifty-four. And he could have gone from man to man and picked out those
who belonged north of Fifty-eight.
Aft of the smoking-room he paused, tipping the ash of his cigar over the
edge of the rail. A little group of three stood near him, and he
recognized them as the young engineers, fresh from college, going up to
work on the government railroad running from Seward to Tanana. One of
them was talking, filled with the enthusiasm of his first adventure.
"I tell you," he said, "people don't know what they ought to know about
Alaska. In school they teach us that it's an eternal icebox full of
gold, and is headquarters for Santa Claus, because that's where reindeer
come from.
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