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restlessness of her audience as she sang penny-sheet songs loudly and off-key, not minding that her hoops were hiked high to one side as if a great hook were attempting to hoist her into the sky. Ah, but then how they danced! She was not leaving his arms. Not ever. How sure he was! They kissed shamelessly. It was as if their love had woven a chrysalis about them. Her lips tasted of ginger beer, her throat of sea air, her hair of the precious, rare lemons he had given her earlier, holding one in each hand, his thumbs stroking their nubs. She grasped them and laughed and then sliced them full open and squeezed the juice through her hair to make it shine ever more golden. He had never thought of himself as lascivious until then.
    â€œI didn’t dare say, but we met before, you and me,” she told him that night. He said, yes, in his dreams. She told him, no, in London. He had been with some friends in Newcut market. He had dropped to his knees when he saw her and begged her to come to the colonies with him. Eugene said it was quite likely. He and the fellows often went slumming, begging kisses from comely girls in not-so-comely streets. It was what many students did.
    She looked so disappointed that Eugene explained hastily that he was jesting. Of course he remembered her. He used the word fate . He used the word destiny . Even the phrase love at first glance .
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    He takes another drink, stares at Oswald to erase the thoughts of Dora, to ease the hardness in his crotch.
    The night wears on until Eugene is nearly alone in the saloon. He braces himself against the faint shifting of the paddlewheeler, plans how best to navigate the stairs to the bunks below. He has overdone it, will pay dearly tomorrow. But it was worth it, surely, to forge a few friendships on the way to the goldfields. The Italian would make a fine partner. See his hands? Size of shovels. As for the Welshmen, they look as if they were born underground. That makes four, himself included. Perhaps a carpenter or two. No more needed than that. Keep a balance between profit and practicality.
    Eugene sings: “Dora! Dora! My adored, my adorable Dora. We’ll be rich as Croesus. We’ll be Mr. and Mrs. Midas. Oh, give me your golden heart.”
    â€œShut your bloody caterwauling!”
    Eugene peers down the stairwell. “What, ho, a fellow Londoner is it? You’ve been hiding good man. Come up for a song.”
    â€œYou’ll be singing a fucking dirge if you don’t bloody well shut it.”
    There is laughter, and hear hears .
    Eugene settles for humming. Goes out on the deck, steadies himself and walks, hand on rail. Good that he is not as his father was. Eugene can hold his drink, does not transform from a quiet gentleman into a choleric, violent, incoherent lie-about. When in his cups, Eugene is merely more Eugene-like—more talkative, friendly, more witty, more ready with songs and observations.
    The ragged line of mountains is faintly agleam with snow. Eugene points, though there is no one to note, how the moon is cradled in the antlers affixed to the wheelhouse. On the foredeck the Indians, Coloureds, and Chinamen huddle among the cargo. Poor devils. The deck there was hot as pokers this morning what with the boilers beneath going full throttle. He had stood there for two minutes in his socks before jigging and cursing, much to the amusement of the Missouri men who had bet him a dollar that he could not outlast one of their own. He had, however, and has the dollar still in his pocket to prove it.
    Chill in the air. Foredeck must be tomb-cool now, what with the boilers shut down for the night. He knows the feeling, hot and cold, hot and cold, never anything in between.
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    Eugene wakes to a high-pitched whistle. A jarring sends him near tumbling to the floor. Whiffs of whiskey and malodorous socks.
    â€œScuse it,” says his neighbour, jumping from the