The Journal of a Sporting Nomad 



of cases the note was a " wrong 'un." To a new 

 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 



