brash and forward, with no sense of proper social distinctions, or they’re brutish clods recently arrived from some minor European country, little better than the peasants you’d find in any French village. And it irritated him to think that these latter Americans in their rough country clothes were presuming to occupy first-class accommodations, the only ones they were able to obtain on the crowded trains. You’d not find them doing this in England, he thought, and he was increasingly pleased that he had engineered it so that his team could avoid America completely, knowing he’d not feel at ease spending an extended period among such people.
The two young Englishmen, forced to accept what seats were available in the crowded dining car, struck up an easy conversation with their tablemates. “I say,” Trevor asked, “where do these people come from?” and one of the men pointed to one pair of diners after another: “They’re German, I happen to know them. That group I would judge to be from a Russian religious group who found refuge near here. The next? They could be anything,” and he leaned out from the table to ask: “Where would you be from?” but as soon as theman began to speak, Trevor cried: “Scandinavian, aren’t you?” and the man said: “Norwegian.”
When Luton’s party disembarked from the main line of the Canadian Pacific in Calgary in order to catch the train to Edmonton, everything changed, for nearly a thousand gold-seekers from all parts of the United States had crowded in to augment the hordes who had streamed in from eastern Canada. When the smaller train started due north to Edmonton, every seat was taken, so three cars normally used for cattle transfers were attached, and more than a hundred people rode the hundred and ninety-two miles to Edmonton standing up, and happy to be doing so.
Lord Luton, surveying this crush of humanity, said: “It’s been like the meander of a major river over a long course. Smaller streams keep feeding into it from distant points, until the thing becomes a flood.” He had scarcely uttered these words when someone heard Fogarty address him as “Milord.” Word flashed through the mob that a real British lord was traveling north. Soon gawking Americans were pushing in to see how a British nobleman looked and more experienced Canadians watched approvingly from a distance.
Seeking refuge, Luton fled to his private saloon, but at dinner several strangers stopped by his table to pay their respects and wish him well. He was so distressed by this that he drew back, took refuge in his silent-sneer, and prayed that the trip would end quickly. Eleven hours later he heard cheering coming from the three cattle cars and looked out to see Edmonton, which had exploded from less than five hundred people last year to more than two thousand in the period since those fatal words were shouted in Seattle: “Ship’s in with more than a ton of solid gold!”
—
Luton’s first impression of Edmonton was of a city of tents, for the gold-seekers had thrown up thousands of temporary canvas dwellings along the flats of the North Saskatchewan River. Shops of every description had mysteriously appeared, most with some bold sign assuring the newcomer that inside these doors he would find all he needed for his forthcoming journey to the Klondike. The burghers of Edmonton reveled in its sudden notoriety, while hawkers pestered strangers on its impromptu streets, seeking to guide them to this shop or that. One man dressed like a carpenter, with overalls and bib containing six pockets for nails, harangued the travelers, and handedout leaflets warning them not to go north without the necessary hardware. He said that a minimal kit could be purchased at his brother’s store for $43, which provided basics such as shovel, pick, whipsaw, hammer, rope, ax, drawknife, chisel, bucket and gold pan. However, he recommended what he called “the complete kit, listed here in detail, more
The two young Englishmen, forced to accept what seats were available in the crowded dining car, struck up an easy conversation with their tablemates. “I say,” Trevor asked, “where do these people come from?” and one of the men pointed to one pair of diners after another: “They’re German, I happen to know them. That group I would judge to be from a Russian religious group who found refuge near here. The next? They could be anything,” and he leaned out from the table to ask: “Where would you be from?” but as soon as theman began to speak, Trevor cried: “Scandinavian, aren’t you?” and the man said: “Norwegian.”
When Luton’s party disembarked from the main line of the Canadian Pacific in Calgary in order to catch the train to Edmonton, everything changed, for nearly a thousand gold-seekers from all parts of the United States had crowded in to augment the hordes who had streamed in from eastern Canada. When the smaller train started due north to Edmonton, every seat was taken, so three cars normally used for cattle transfers were attached, and more than a hundred people rode the hundred and ninety-two miles to Edmonton standing up, and happy to be doing so.
Lord Luton, surveying this crush of humanity, said: “It’s been like the meander of a major river over a long course. Smaller streams keep feeding into it from distant points, until the thing becomes a flood.” He had scarcely uttered these words when someone heard Fogarty address him as “Milord.” Word flashed through the mob that a real British lord was traveling north. Soon gawking Americans were pushing in to see how a British nobleman looked and more experienced Canadians watched approvingly from a distance.
Seeking refuge, Luton fled to his private saloon, but at dinner several strangers stopped by his table to pay their respects and wish him well. He was so distressed by this that he drew back, took refuge in his silent-sneer, and prayed that the trip would end quickly. Eleven hours later he heard cheering coming from the three cattle cars and looked out to see Edmonton, which had exploded from less than five hundred people last year to more than two thousand in the period since those fatal words were shouted in Seattle: “Ship’s in with more than a ton of solid gold!”
—
Luton’s first impression of Edmonton was of a city of tents, for the gold-seekers had thrown up thousands of temporary canvas dwellings along the flats of the North Saskatchewan River. Shops of every description had mysteriously appeared, most with some bold sign assuring the newcomer that inside these doors he would find all he needed for his forthcoming journey to the Klondike. The burghers of Edmonton reveled in its sudden notoriety, while hawkers pestered strangers on its impromptu streets, seeking to guide them to this shop or that. One man dressed like a carpenter, with overalls and bib containing six pockets for nails, harangued the travelers, and handedout leaflets warning them not to go north without the necessary hardware. He said that a minimal kit could be purchased at his brother’s store for $43, which provided basics such as shovel, pick, whipsaw, hammer, rope, ax, drawknife, chisel, bucket and gold pan. However, he recommended what he called “the complete kit, listed here in detail, more
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