ter, named Alaska Alice,—so christened in honor of the sturdy mustang which had once dragged the wandering gold-seeker over White Pass and delivered him for the last time from the hardships of a most inglorious and unremunerative vagabondage. Learning of an opening in Chamboro, Timothy O'Malley was turning from the glories of the Open Trail to his humble but honest old trade of bread-making.
There had been a great deal of talk, in Chamboro, of the affluent young Klondiker who was to take up his residence in that busy and progressive town. Much speculation was indulged in as to whether the newcomer would enter into the banking business, conduct some sort of brokerage concern, or live in quiet luxury on the harvests of his northern adventures.
When, accordingly, the O'Malley equipage, after a humble but happy enough all-night camp on the roadside trail, appeared unexpectedly on the outskirts of the town, there was a sudden great to-do in the streets of Chamboro. As Plato, with his languid yet majestic stride, slowly hauled the strange load into the little town, lending to the invasion
