There was no room for more, yet hourly they added to the mass.
Teams splashed through the lapping surf or stuck in the deep sand
between hillocks of goods. All was noise, profanity, congestion,
and feverish hurry. This burning haste rang in the voice of the
multitude, showed in its violence of gesture and redness of face,
permeated the atmosphere with a magnetic, electrifying energy.

"It's somethin' fierce ashore," said the oarsman. "I been up fer
three days an' nights steady--there ain't no room, nor time, nor
darkness to sleep in. Ham an' eggs is a dollar an' a half, an'
whiskey's four bits a throw." He wailed the last, sadly, as a
complaint unspeakable.

"Any trouble doin'?" inquired the old man.

"You KNOW it!" the other cried, colloquially. "There was a
massacree in the Northern last night."

"Gamblin' row?"

"Yep. Tin-horn called 'Missou' done it."

"Sho!" said Dextry. "I know him. He's a bad actor." All three men
nodded sagely, and the girl wished for further light, but they
volunteered no explanation.

Leaving the skiff, they plunged into turmoil. Dodging through the
tangle, they came out into fenced lots where tents stood wall to
wall and every inch was occupied. Here and there was a vacant spot