man, a fellow who’s never been out of Edmonton, not even as far as the Peace River. I’ve been told by many men in town that there’s no way people starting now can get to the gold fields before winter.”
“Fogarty,” Luton said, with just a show of irritation, “are you certain of all this, or is it just a batch of village rumors?” and when Fogarty protested that he had checked the veracity of his informants as carefully as possible, Lord Luton cut him short and snapped at Carpenter: “Harry, go out there and find out what’s happening.”While Lord Luton was looking the other way, Fogarty slipped up to Carpenter and whispered: “His name’s Peter Randolph. You’ll find him tending shop in that place with the stuffed bear in the window”; and Harry went in search.
He found Randolph eagerly selling equipment to strangers who had no conception of the dangers they would be facing, and he was repelled by the young man’s brazen lies. For nearly half an hour he hung about the edges of the crowd that was eagerly buying Randolph’s gear, listening to the deceptions and correcting them to himself: “Dawson’s just to the north, three, four hundred easy miles.” Must be twelve hundred of hellish difficulty. “Seven pleasant weeks before the snow falls should get you there.” More like seven months, with snow most of the way.
What really terrified him was the information quietly passed him by an Edmonton man who said he was ashamed at what was happening: “You look a proper sort. England? I thought so. Believe not a word that one says. He’s never been north of this town. Only one man in history has completed the journey from here to Dawson, trained scout familiar with our climate. Powerful chap, top condition, had the help of Indians, too.”
“How long did it take him?”
“A year and two months. Arrived nearly dead.”
“Then it’s criminal to send these unsuspecting people along such a trail.”
“It’s worse. It’s murder.”
Rushing back to where Luton waited, Harry said bitterly: “Everything Fogarty said is true, Evelyn, except that he discovered only half. Even to attempt an overland trip from here to Dawson would be suicide. And Fogarty was also correct about Randolph. His forged reports are founded on nothing, not a single trip to anywhere, just dreams and willful delusions. Evelyn, this deception is so shocking, I do believe we must warn those gullible fools out there not to attempt such folly.” He was so statesmanlike, never raising his voice and thinking only of others, that Luton was persuaded that an alarm must be sounded. Before this could be done a wild noise of cheering and whistling flooded their quarters, and all turned out to watch not a tragedy, nor a comedy either, but merely the latest in line of the Edmonton insanities.
A farmer named Fothergill from Kansas, who had made not a fortune but a competence raising corn and feeding it to his hogs, hadarrived some days earlier on the train, bringing with him some two dozen large pieces of cargo that he had assembled into what he called “the Miracle Machine,” which would carry him to the Klondike. Basically, it was an agricultural tractor, heavily modified for the gold rush, and on the flat fields of Kansas it might have been a sensation, for it consisted of a sturdy iron-strapped boiler which, when heated by wood chopped along the way, would activate four giant wheels.
“You’ll notice,” Fothergill told the admiring crowd, “that the wheels are pretty big across. That’s to help them roll over obstacles. You’d be surprised how that helps.” But then he showed them the secret of his success: “Maybe you didn’t notice at first, but look at those spikes fitted into the wheels, and these three dozen extras in the box back here in case one breaks.”
“What do they do?” a suspicious Canadian asked, and Fothergill explained: “They dig into the soil. Give the contraption a footing and send it forward as neat
“Fogarty,” Luton said, with just a show of irritation, “are you certain of all this, or is it just a batch of village rumors?” and when Fogarty protested that he had checked the veracity of his informants as carefully as possible, Lord Luton cut him short and snapped at Carpenter: “Harry, go out there and find out what’s happening.”While Lord Luton was looking the other way, Fogarty slipped up to Carpenter and whispered: “His name’s Peter Randolph. You’ll find him tending shop in that place with the stuffed bear in the window”; and Harry went in search.
He found Randolph eagerly selling equipment to strangers who had no conception of the dangers they would be facing, and he was repelled by the young man’s brazen lies. For nearly half an hour he hung about the edges of the crowd that was eagerly buying Randolph’s gear, listening to the deceptions and correcting them to himself: “Dawson’s just to the north, three, four hundred easy miles.” Must be twelve hundred of hellish difficulty. “Seven pleasant weeks before the snow falls should get you there.” More like seven months, with snow most of the way.
What really terrified him was the information quietly passed him by an Edmonton man who said he was ashamed at what was happening: “You look a proper sort. England? I thought so. Believe not a word that one says. He’s never been north of this town. Only one man in history has completed the journey from here to Dawson, trained scout familiar with our climate. Powerful chap, top condition, had the help of Indians, too.”
“How long did it take him?”
“A year and two months. Arrived nearly dead.”
“Then it’s criminal to send these unsuspecting people along such a trail.”
“It’s worse. It’s murder.”
Rushing back to where Luton waited, Harry said bitterly: “Everything Fogarty said is true, Evelyn, except that he discovered only half. Even to attempt an overland trip from here to Dawson would be suicide. And Fogarty was also correct about Randolph. His forged reports are founded on nothing, not a single trip to anywhere, just dreams and willful delusions. Evelyn, this deception is so shocking, I do believe we must warn those gullible fools out there not to attempt such folly.” He was so statesmanlike, never raising his voice and thinking only of others, that Luton was persuaded that an alarm must be sounded. Before this could be done a wild noise of cheering and whistling flooded their quarters, and all turned out to watch not a tragedy, nor a comedy either, but merely the latest in line of the Edmonton insanities.
A farmer named Fothergill from Kansas, who had made not a fortune but a competence raising corn and feeding it to his hogs, hadarrived some days earlier on the train, bringing with him some two dozen large pieces of cargo that he had assembled into what he called “the Miracle Machine,” which would carry him to the Klondike. Basically, it was an agricultural tractor, heavily modified for the gold rush, and on the flat fields of Kansas it might have been a sensation, for it consisted of a sturdy iron-strapped boiler which, when heated by wood chopped along the way, would activate four giant wheels.
“You’ll notice,” Fothergill told the admiring crowd, “that the wheels are pretty big across. That’s to help them roll over obstacles. You’d be surprised how that helps.” But then he showed them the secret of his success: “Maybe you didn’t notice at first, but look at those spikes fitted into the wheels, and these three dozen extras in the box back here in case one breaks.”
“What do they do?” a suspicious Canadian asked, and Fothergill explained: “They dig into the soil. Give the contraption a footing and send it forward as neat
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