To Alan, on this particular night, the steamship Nome was more than a thing of wood and steel.  It was a living, pulsating being, throbbing with the very heart-beat of Alaska.  The purr of the mighty engines was a human intelligence crooning a song of joy.  For him the crowded passenger list held a significance that was almost epic, and its names represented more than mere men and women.  They were the vital fiber of the land he loved, its heart’s blood, its very element—­“giving in.”  He knew that with the throb of those engines romance, adventure, tragedy, and hope were on their way north—­and with these things also arrogance and greed.  On board were a hundred conflicting elements—­some that had fought for Alaska, others that would make her, and others that would destroy.

He puffed at his cigar and walked alone, brushing sleeves with men and women whom he scarcely seemed to notice.  But he was observant.  He knew the tourists almost without looking at them.  The spirit of the north had not yet seized upon them.  They were voluble and rather excitedly enthusiastic in the face of beauty and awesomeness.  The sour-doughs were tucked away here and there in shadowy nooks, watching in silence, or they walked the deck slowly and quietly, smoking their cigars or pipes, and seeing things beyond the mountains.  Between these two, the newcomers and the old-timers, ran the gamut of all human thrill for Alan, the flesh-and-blood fiber of everything that went to make up life north of Fifty-four.  And he could have gone from man to man and picked out those who belonged north of Fifty-eight.

Aft of the smoking-room he paused, tipping the ash of his cigar over the edge of the rail.  A little group of three stood near him, and he recognized them as the young engineers, fresh from college, going up to work on the government railroad running from Seward to Tanana.  One of them was talking, filled with the enthusiasm of his first adventure.

“I tell you,” he said, “people don’t know what they ought to know about Alaska.  In school they teach us that it’s an eternal icebox full of gold, and is headquarters for Santa Claus, because that’s where reindeer come from.  And grown-ups think about the same thing.  Why”—­he drew in a deep breath—­“it’s nine times as large as the state of Washington, twelve times as big as the state of New York, and we bought it from Russia for less than two cents an acre.  If you put it down on the face of the United States, the city of Juneau would be in St. Augustine, Florida, and Unalaska would be in Los Angeles.  That’s how big it is, and the geographical center of our country isn’t Omaha or Sioux City, but exactly San Francisco, California.”

“Good for you, sonny,” came a quiet voice from beyond the group.  “Your geography is correct.  And you might add for the education of your people that Alaska is only thirty-seven miles from Bolshevik Siberia, and wireless messages are sent into Alaska by the Bolsheviks urging our people to rise against the Washington government.  We’ve asked Washington for a few guns and a few men to guard Nome, but they laugh at us.  Do you see a moral?”