Transcribed from the 1919 William Heinemann edition ,email ccx074@coventry.ac.uk
Contents:
A Relic of the Pliocene
A Hyperborean Brew
The Faith of Men
Too Much Gold
The One Thousand Dozen
The Marriage of Lit-lit
Bâtard
The Story of Jees Uck
I wash my hands of him at the start. I cannot father his tales,nor will I be responsible for them. I make these preliminary reservations,observe, as a guard upon my own integrity. I possess a certaindefinite position in a small way, also a wife; and for the good nameof the community that honours my existence with its approval, and forthe sake of her posterity and mine, I cannot take the chances I oncedid, nor foster probabilities with the careless improvidence of youth. So, I repeat, I wash my hands of him, this Nimrod, this mighty hunter,this homely, blue-eyed, freckle-faced Thomas Stevens.
Having been honest to myself, and to whatever prospective olive branchesmy wife may be pleased to tender me, I can now afford to be generous. I shall not criticize the tales told me by Thomas Stevens, and, further,I shall withhold my judgment. If it be asked why, I can only addthat judgment I have none. Long have I pondered, weighed, andbalanced, but never have my conclusions been twice the same—forsooth!because Thomas Stevens is a greater man than I. If he have toldtruths, well and good; if untruths, still well and good. For whocan prove? or who disprove? I eliminate myself from the proposition,while those of little faith may do as I have done—go find thesame Thomas Stevens, and discuss to his face the various matters which,if fortune serve, I shall relate. As to where he may be found? The directions are simple: anywhere between 53 north latitude and thePole, on the one hand; and, on the other, the likeliest hunting groundsthat lie between the east coast of Siberia and farthermost Labrador. That he is there, somewhere, within that clearly defined territory,I pledge the word of an honourable man whose expectations entail straightspeaking and right living.
Thomas Stevens may have toyed prodigiously with truth, but when wefirst met (it were well to mark this point), he wandered into my campwhen I thought myself a thousand miles beyond the outermost post ofcivilization. At the sight of his human face, the first in wearymonths, I could have sprung forward and folded him in my arms (and Iam not by any means a demonstrative man); but to him his visit seemedthe most casual thing under the sun. He just strolled into thelight of my camp, passed the time of day after the custom of men onbeaten trails, threw my snowshoes the one way and a couple of dogs theother, and so made room for himself by the fire. Said he’djust dropped in to borrow a pinch of soda and to see if I had any decenttobacco. He plucked forth an ancient pipe, loaded it with painstakingcare, and, without as much as by your leave, whacked half the tobaccoof my pouch into his. Yes, the stuff was fairly good. Hesighed with the contentment of the just, and literally absorbed thesmoke from the crisping yellow flakes, and it did my smoker’sheart good to behold him.
Hunter? Trapper? Prospector? He shrugged his shouldersNo; just sort of knocking round a bit. Had come up from the GreatSlave some time since, and was thinking of trapsing over into the Yukoncountry. The factor of Koshim had spoken about the discoverieson the Klondike, and he was of a mind to run over for a peep. I noticed that he spoke of the Klondike in the archaic vernacular, callingit the Reindeer River—a conceited custom that the Old Timers employagainst the che-chaquas and all tenderfeet in general. But he did it so naively and as such a matter of course, that there