than a hundred and ten necessities, only $125.” This contained such useful items as a brace and bit, a block and tackle, a magnifying glass and a Dutch oven.
Philip accepted one of the leaflets, and when he returned to the hotel he recommended to his uncle that they buy the $125 assortment, but Luton said: “Harry’s doing the buying, and he’s much more practiced in outfitting expeditions than your carpenter friend.”
While the four gentlemen attended to such matters as hardware, Fogarty moved quietly among the Americans and the Edmonton shopkeepers, and as he talked with clerks he began to uncover disquieting news. When he asked who the expert was who had prepared that pamphlet his team had acquired from the Canadian office in London, one sharp-minded fellow working in an outfitting shop asked: “What expert?” and Fogarty said: “I think his name was Halverson.” The clerk sniggered: “Oh, him,” and when Fogarty named the expert on the Mackenzie River, Desbordays, the clerk laughed outright: “They’re the same man. Peter Randolph. He works at the newspaper.”
“Has he ever been to Dawson?”
“He hasn’t been as far north as the Athabasca River.”
“What did he do, ask a lot of questions?”
“About what?”
“You know, talk with the other men who had been there.”
“Nobody from here has been anywhere. I mean, down the Mackenzie River a short ways, maybe. On fishing trips, yes.”
“But to the gold fields?”
“Nobody. At least not yet. There’s talk that a government expedition might set out next year. But not now, with winter heading in.”
Fogarty, loath to accept such disheartening information, quietly left the outfitter and strolled from one shop to another, asking not proprietors but minor clerks about the trails to the Klondike, and consistently he heard that Peter Randolph had never been out of Edmonton and that no one at present in the town had made the trek to Dawson, for as several pointed out: “Dawson wasn’t even there till all this started.”
“But could they have been to the Klondike?”
“There was no such place till last year when those Americans gave it that name.”
As Fogarty walked down the dusty back streets of Edmonton, trying to digest his disturbing discoveries, he saw that he must do two things: try to speak with this man Peter Randolph who had written the spurious documents and then inform Lord Luton of his findings. At the office of the town’s newspaper he asked for Randolph, and was told: “He doesn’t work here anymore.” When Fogarty asked: “What’s he doing?” he was told: “He’s taken a job giving advice to prospectors at a store that opened last week.”
It took Fogarty a while to find which of the many new businesses had hired this imaginative man, and when he did he presented himself as a solitary would-be prospector. “Yes indeed!” salesman Randolph said enthusiastically. “You can get to the fields before the ice freezes everything. We’ll provide you with the best clothing and equipment possible, food supplies too, and with one horse, which you supply, you can make it.”
After Fogarty talked with him for some time, he began to suspect that not one word of what the man said was true. The whole Edmonton operation could be a gigantic fraud engineered by a few rapacious businessmen and a group of inattentive town fathers. It looked as if no one, when these pleasant days of summer were still long, stopped to reason that in sending lone travelers north into the teeth of the oncoming winter, a sentence of death was being pronounced, and that in dispatching even carefully prepared teams like Lord Luton’s, disaster was being invited.
With this partial but frightening information, Fogarty returned to the hotel and told Luton: “If you’ll excuse me saying so, Milord, we better get the others.” When they assembled he said: “I think we’re in a trap. The two men who wrote those reports you mention so much, they’re one
Philip accepted one of the leaflets, and when he returned to the hotel he recommended to his uncle that they buy the $125 assortment, but Luton said: “Harry’s doing the buying, and he’s much more practiced in outfitting expeditions than your carpenter friend.”
While the four gentlemen attended to such matters as hardware, Fogarty moved quietly among the Americans and the Edmonton shopkeepers, and as he talked with clerks he began to uncover disquieting news. When he asked who the expert was who had prepared that pamphlet his team had acquired from the Canadian office in London, one sharp-minded fellow working in an outfitting shop asked: “What expert?” and Fogarty said: “I think his name was Halverson.” The clerk sniggered: “Oh, him,” and when Fogarty named the expert on the Mackenzie River, Desbordays, the clerk laughed outright: “They’re the same man. Peter Randolph. He works at the newspaper.”
“Has he ever been to Dawson?”
“He hasn’t been as far north as the Athabasca River.”
“What did he do, ask a lot of questions?”
“About what?”
“You know, talk with the other men who had been there.”
“Nobody from here has been anywhere. I mean, down the Mackenzie River a short ways, maybe. On fishing trips, yes.”
“But to the gold fields?”
“Nobody. At least not yet. There’s talk that a government expedition might set out next year. But not now, with winter heading in.”
Fogarty, loath to accept such disheartening information, quietly left the outfitter and strolled from one shop to another, asking not proprietors but minor clerks about the trails to the Klondike, and consistently he heard that Peter Randolph had never been out of Edmonton and that no one at present in the town had made the trek to Dawson, for as several pointed out: “Dawson wasn’t even there till all this started.”
“But could they have been to the Klondike?”
“There was no such place till last year when those Americans gave it that name.”
As Fogarty walked down the dusty back streets of Edmonton, trying to digest his disturbing discoveries, he saw that he must do two things: try to speak with this man Peter Randolph who had written the spurious documents and then inform Lord Luton of his findings. At the office of the town’s newspaper he asked for Randolph, and was told: “He doesn’t work here anymore.” When Fogarty asked: “What’s he doing?” he was told: “He’s taken a job giving advice to prospectors at a store that opened last week.”
It took Fogarty a while to find which of the many new businesses had hired this imaginative man, and when he did he presented himself as a solitary would-be prospector. “Yes indeed!” salesman Randolph said enthusiastically. “You can get to the fields before the ice freezes everything. We’ll provide you with the best clothing and equipment possible, food supplies too, and with one horse, which you supply, you can make it.”
After Fogarty talked with him for some time, he began to suspect that not one word of what the man said was true. The whole Edmonton operation could be a gigantic fraud engineered by a few rapacious businessmen and a group of inattentive town fathers. It looked as if no one, when these pleasant days of summer were still long, stopped to reason that in sending lone travelers north into the teeth of the oncoming winter, a sentence of death was being pronounced, and that in dispatching even carefully prepared teams like Lord Luton’s, disaster was being invited.
With this partial but frightening information, Fogarty returned to the hotel and told Luton: “If you’ll excuse me saying so, Milord, we better get the others.” When they assembled he said: “I think we’re in a trap. The two men who wrote those reports you mention so much, they’re one
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