"Of course, it wasn't such a big spree; nothing gaudy or Swedelike;
but them that should know, claimed it was a model of refinement.
Yes, I have got many encomiums on its general proportions and
artistic finish. One hundred dollars an hour for twenty-four hours,
all in red licker, confined to and in me and my choicest
sympathizers. I reckon all our booze combined would have made a fair
sluice-head. Anyhow, I woke up considerable farther down the dim
vistas of time and about the same distance down the Yukon, in the
bottom of my dory, seekin' new fields at six miles an hour. The
trader had follered my last will and testament scrupulous, even to
coverin' up my legs.

"That's how I drifted into Rampart City, and Justus Morrow.

"This here town was the same as any new camp; a mile long and
eighteen inches wide, consisting of saloons, dance-halls, saloons,
trading-posts, saloons, places to get licker, and saloons. Might not
have been so many dancehalls and trading-posts as I've mentioned, and
a few more saloons.

"I dropped into a joint called The Reception, and who'd I see playing
'bank' but 'Single Out' Wilmer, the worst gambler on the river.
Mounted police had him on the woodpile in Dawson, then tied a can on
him. At the same table was a nice, tender Philadelphia squab, 'bout
fryin' size, and while I was watching, Wilmer pulls down a bet
belonging to it. That's an old game.

"'Pardon me,' says the broiler; 'you have my checks.'