tremendous appetites he had ever observed. They lay down and slept in
their wet rags by the stove. At the end of two hours Churchill got up,
carried Bondell's grip, which he had used for a pillow, down to the
canoe, kicked Antonsen awake, and started in pursuit of the _Flora_.

"There's no telling what might happen--machinery break down, or
something," was his reply to Captain Jones's expostulations. "I'm going
to catch that steamer and send her back for the boys."

Tagish Lake was white with a fall gale that blew in their teeth. Big,
swinging seas rushed upon the canoe, compelling one man to bale and
leaving one man to paddle. Headway could not be made. They ran along
the shallow shore and went overboard, one man ahead on the tow-line, the
other shoving on the canoe. They fought the gale up to their waists in
the icy water, often up to their necks, often over their heads and buried
by the big, crested waves. There was no rest, never a moment's pause
from the cheerless, heart-breaking battle. That night, at the head of
Tagish Lake, in the thick of a driving snow-squall, they overhauled the
_Flora_. Antonsen fell on board, lay where he had fallen, and snored.
Churchill looked like a wild man. His clothes barely clung to him. His
face was iced up and swollen from the protracted effort of twenty-four
hours, while his hands were so swollen that he could not close the
fingers. As for his feet, it was an agony to stand upon them.

The captain of the _Flora_ was loth to go back to White Horse. Churchill
was persistent and imperative; the captain was stubborn. He pointed out
finally that nothing was to be gained by going back, because the only
ocean steamer at Dyea, the _Athenian_, was to sail on Tuesday morning,
and that he could not make the back trip to White Horse and bring up the
stranded pilgrims in time to make the connection.