Twice he had tried
it since his old comrade had died, and twice he had been driven out. The
next time he would know how to go about it, and he invited Alan to
go with him.
There was a thrill in this talk of a land so near, scarcely a night ride
across the neck of Bering Sea, and yet as proscribed as the sacred
plains of Tibet. It stirred old desires in Alan's blood, for he knew
that of all frontiers the Siberian would be the last and the greatest,
and that not only men, but nations, would play their part in the
breaking of it. He saw the red gleam of firelight in Olaf's eyes.
"And if we don't go in first from _this side_, Alan, the yellow fellows
will come out some day from _that,"_ rumbled the old sour-dough,
striking his pipe in the hollow of his hand. "And when they do, they
won't come over to us in ones an' twos an' threes, but in millions.
That's what the yellow fellows will do when they once get started, an'
it's up to a few Alaska Jacks an' Tough-Nut Bills to get their feet
planted first on the other side. Will you go?"
Alan shook his head. "Some day--but not now." The old flash was in his
eyes and he was seeing the fight ahead of him again--the fight to do his
bit in striking the shackles of misgovernment from Alaska and rousing
the world to an understanding of the menace which hung over her like a
smoldering cloud.
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