rs 



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not explain why a dozen men have 

 not been drowned or killed. With 

 enough experiences each to fur- 

 nish food for conversation for a 

 lifetime, if you were to ask Rea- 

 burn, Gilmore, Ryus, Guerin, or 

 Baldwin to relate some adventure 

 they would not be able to recall 

 one little one, for like Percy, the 

 Machination Man of the Sun- 

 day supplements, "Of imagination 

 they have nix." They are not 

 parlor explorers or lecture-room 

 adventurers. It is simply their 

 life. 



A steamboat wreck in the Thirty 

 Mile River, freight gone astray, 

 water too low to allow navigation 

 for river steamers, caused Craig, 

 the Canadian chief of party, and 

 me to muster our fleet, consisting 

 of the American power boats Mid- 

 night Sun and Frontiersman and 

 the Canadian Aurora and Pelicav, 

 on the lower river to bring up 

 supplies for the clamoring parties. 

 Craig had gone to Fort Yukon, 

 while I, with a relief cargo of lo 

 tons, on the Midnight Sim was 

 pushing steadily and noisily up the 

 Porcupine. 



One day out from Rampart 

 House we met the Frontiersman, 

 the pilot of which brought an 

 indefinite rumor of that most 

 dreaded of all diseases among the 

 Indians, smallpox. At Rampart 

 House the rumor was confirmed. 

 The little daughter of the Indian 

 preacher showed a well-defined 

 case. Our surgeon. Dr. Smith, 

 had isolated the patient on the 

 island, but no other steps had been 

 taken. 



It was a difficult problem. The 

 boundary line with which we were 

 taking such pains stood in the 

 way. Here we Avere only 500 feet 

 over in Canada and all Canadians 

 away ; but something had to be 

 done to stop the spread of disease 

 to the parties and to the sur- 

 rounding country. 



We debated five minutes. Stores 

 were hurried to the Midnight 

 Sun, telegrams to Dawson and to 

 AVashington written, and the Mid- 

 night Sun shot out into the rapids 



