The Journal of a Sporting Nomad 
6 
of cases the note was a “ wrong ’un.” To anew 
mining camp “bad men” make it convenient 
to find their way as soon as may be. Skagway 
was no exception to this rule. This accounted 
for the skipper’s warning. I had not intended 
going ashore at all, as I had several letters to 
write, and the “city” looked so very unin- 
teresting that I imagined I was missing nothing. 
There was amongst the first-class passengers a 
nice American, with whom I had formed a 
friendship. He was a man of about sixty years 
of age, and quite six feet six inches in height. 
He came to the smoking-room where I was 
sitting, and asked if I would care to go ashore 
with him. I agreed after some persuasion, and 
took my camera with me. The jetty, or pier, was 
of a great length, quite three hundred yards long, 
and at the end of it my companion stood on the 
sidewalk, whilst I took a snapshot of the street. 
I changed the plate, and was on the point of 
rejoining my companion, when a man came up, 
who was no other than the notorious Soapy 
Smith, and began talking to him. The new- 
comer was small, slight, and rather dapper- 
looking. He talked to my tall friend, asking all 
sorts of questions, such as were we going to 
Dawson, and demanded details as to the Span- 
ish-Cuban War, which was then at its height. 
Personally I was not interested, nor did I speak 
until I heard Soapy say, “‘ Wouldn’t you gentle- 
198 
