"It's a thousand miles, I'm sayin' an' most of the trail unbroke, but I bet any chechaquo--anything he wants--that Daylight makes Dyea in thirty days." "That's an average of over thirty-three miles a day," Doc Watson warned, "and I've travelled some myself.

A blizzard on Chilcoot would tie him up for a week." "Yep," Bettles retorted, "an' Daylight'll do the second thousand back again on end in thirty days more, and I got five hundred dollars that says so, and damn the blizzards." To emphasize his remarks, he pulled out a gold-sack the size of a bologna sausage and thumped it down on the bar.

Doc Watson thumped his own sack alongside.
"Hold on!" Daylight cried.

"Bettles's right, and I want in on this.

I bet five hundred that sixty days from now I pull up at the Tivoli door with the Dyea mail." A sceptical roar went up, and a dozen men pulled out their sacks.
Jack Kearns crowded in close and caught Daylight's attention.
"I take you, Daylight," he cried.