ENROUTE TO THE HUNTING GROUNDS 



passing Cape Spencer, lying beyond Skagway. 

 At this point our boat took to the open sea, leav- 

 ing the protective islands, behind which she had 

 quietly glided almost continually since leaving 

 Seattle. And right here is where one of the most 

 malicious attempts to swamp a boat that ever 

 occurred was almost pulled off by a sub-sea 

 "force." Before we could collect our thoughts, 

 it seemed, Old Neptune took a dive under our 

 boat, succeeding, within four inches, of upsetting 

 the craft. I was in my stateroom at the time. 

 Harry James was telling some ladies — and their 

 husbands — (while seated in a very cozy corner of 

 the aft deck) the difference between raising muf- 

 fins in a high altitude and raising hirsute locks 

 on a billiard ball; Rogers was singing some pretty 

 things to a pretty girl from Spokane, while Will- 

 iam James, firmly braced against the corner rail- 

 ing of his seat on the main deck, was an unwilling 

 listener to the cooings of a widow from Walla 

 Walla. As before stated, I was in my stateroom, 

 where I should have been, at the time, most 

 likely writing a prelude to this story. (Or, pos- 

 sibly, I was penciling a preamble to the sermon 

 that the minister was to preach on arrival at 

 Cordova. My memory is greatly at fault now, 

 owing to the shock received.) At any rate, I re- 

 member what happened afterward. It was 

 about 9:30 in the evening, and as Old Nep made 

 his first dive I was precipitated with much force 

 and violence against the bed railing, and as he 



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