Loe raamatut: «The Wilderness Castaways», lehekülg 7

CHAPTER XII
FACTOR MACTAVISH OF FORT RELIANCE

WHEN Paul opened his eyes he felt very damp and uncomfortable. As his vision cleared he beheld Dan standing over him with his hat full of water, which Dan was undoubtedly about to dash into his face.

“Don’t Dan! Don’t throw that on me!” he plead weakly. “What you wetting me down that way for?”

“You comin’ to all right?” asked Dan. “You fainted, an’ I were sousin’ you t’ bring you to. I’m thinkin’ I better souse you this un. ’T will do no harm.”

“Oh, Dan–”

But Paul’s protest came too late, and he received the contents of the hat full in his face.

“There,” said Dan with satisfaction, “I’m thinkin’ that’ll be enough, an’ bring you to, all right. How you feelin’?”

“All right now.” His voice was stronger, but still weak. “That thing ’most killed me, didn’t it?”

“You’re a long way from dyin’ yet, but you were havin’ a rare fine fight with th’ varmint, an’ when you kills un you faints. Feelin’ stronger? I’m thinkin’ a bit more water’ll be helpin’ you, now.”

“No! No, Dan!” plead Paul, trying to rise, but still too weak. “Don’t throw any more water on me. I’m soaked and freezing with it now.”

“Well, maybe you’re havin’ enough,” said Dan, uncertainly. “Dad says th’ best thing t’ bring a feller around when he gets done up is plenty o’ water.”

“What kind of an animal was that? When it came leaping at me I thought my time had come.”

“’Twere a lynx, an’ a wonderful big un, too, an’ nice an’ fat. He’ll make fine eatin’. How’d he come t’ fight? I never heard o’ one fightin’ before. They always runs.”

“Why, I shot him, and thought I’d killed him, and when I came over without the rifle he jumped on me.”

Dan examined the bloody carcass of the great lynx lying by Paul’s side.

“There’s where your bullet comes,” said he, pointing at a furrow along the top of the head. “’T were breakin’ th’ skin an’ stunnin’ he. He just comes to, like you’re doin’ now, when you gets over, an’ bein’ sort o’ cornered he jumps on you. That’s th’ way of all beasts. Anything’ll turn on a feller when ’tis cornered.”

“I thought I was a goner, and I don’t understand how I ever killed it. Do I seem to be hurt much? I feel sore all over.”

“Not so bad. Scratched a bit, but ’t ain’t no account. You sticks your knife in his heart. Feelin’ like gettin’ up now?”

“I’ll try.”

With Dan’s assistance Paul rose to his feet, but he felt very weak, and uncertain on his legs.

“I never can walk back to the boat, Dan.”

“We’ll not be goin’ back t’ th’ boat this evenin’. There, keep a good holt of me, an’ we’ll cross th’ creek an’ put a fire on. You’re shiverin’ with th’ cold.”

Dan piloted the tottering Paul to a comfortable place beside the embers of Paul’s former fire, relighted the fire and presently had a cheerful blaze. Then he broke some spruce boughs for a couch, and when Paul said he was quite comfortable and feeling “bully good again, except for the sore spots,” Dan spread out before him a porcupine, a big Arctic hare and five more ptarmigans.

“That’s what I were gettin’ on th’ hunt,” he announced proudly. “Now what you thinkin’ o’ un?”

“Dan, that’s just fine. Why, we can live like kings now. I suppose that’s a porcupine, isn’t it? And of course it’s good to eat—everything seems to be good to eat in this country.”

“Yes, they’s rare fine eatin’. I likes un as well as deer’s meat. Now I’ll have a snack an’ then pack th’ tent an’ beddin’ in here. I feels wonderful gaunt.”

“Dan, you’re a wonder! Here you’ve been tramping after game all this time, and stopping to help me, without a thing to eat since yesterday.”

“If a feller gets game he’s got t’ keep after un when he sees un,” commented Dan, between mouthfuls of the now cold ptarmigan Paul had cooked for him. “An’ ’tis tastin’ wonderful fine, now I gets un. We’ll be havin’ a good feed when I gets back, an’ we’ll find th’ tent rare snug in this timber, free from th’ gale. She’s blowin’ wonderful stiff outside.”

“I’m strong enough now, I guess, to go along and help carry the things. I don’t want you to do it alone, Dan. You do all the hard things,” and Paul attempted to rise.

“You’ll be stayin’ where you is,” objected Dan, forcing Paul back upon his couch. “’Tis but a light load for me. I’m used t’ packin’, an’ I’ll not be long.”

“I do feel pretty weak,” admitted Paul, settling on his couch again.

When Dan returned an hour later the sun had set. He brought with him the tent, blankets, cooking utensils and stove, but declared they were not heavy. He declined Paul’s assistance in pitching the tent, and working with the skill of a woodsman soon had all in readiness for the night, a fire in the stove, and three ptarmigans stewing in the kettle.

“They’s a wonderful rough sea runnin’,” he remarked when he finally sat down. “I’m thinkin’ we’ll not be gettin’ out o’ here for two days yet. Th’ wind’s shifted t’ th’ west’ard an’ she’s blowin’ a gale, an’ she’s kickin’ up a sea as won’t settle in a day after th’ blow stops.”

Dan’s weather prophecy proved quite correct, and three days passed before they were permitted by weather and sea to break camp and resume their journey. Paul’s wounds were not serious, though the deep scratches he had received were painful and troublesome. However, he was able while they remained ashore to attend to camp duties, while Dan hunted.

Under Dan’s direction he roasted the four quarters of lynx and the porcupine, together with another porcupine Dan had secured, as a reserve supply of food. The porcupines were placed upon the coals and the quills and hair thoroughly singed off, after which they were scraped. This done, a big log fire was built. On either side and slightly in front of the fire a stake was driven, and a pole extending from stake to stake was tied in position. From the pole, and directly before the fire, the porcupines and quarters of lynx were so suspended, each at the end of a string, that they hung just high enough to clear the ground. By occasionally twirling the string upon which each was hung, every portion of the roasting meat was exposed to the heat and thoroughly cooked.

Paul found Dan’s estimate of porcupine not at all overdrawn. He declared it not unlike, and even superior to, roasted young pig; and the lynx he insisted was equal to the finest veal.

Dan’s hunting during this period brought them, besides the second porcupine, forty more ptarmigans and three snowshoe rabbits. Thus when they broke camp they were not only well fed but were well supplied with provisions for several days.

It was early dawn of a keen, cold morning when they turned toward the boat with the outfit on their backs. The frost crackled under foot, and when the sun broke out, as they were crossing the berry-covered ridge, it set the frost-covered earth sparkling and scintillating, transforming it into a fairy world strewn with diamonds.

From the hilltop they could see the sea stretching far away to the eastward in a silvery, shimmering sheen.

“Isn’t it immense!” exclaimed Paul, as they sat beside their packs for a brief rest. “I’ve learned to love the sea, in spite of the rough way it’s knocked us about, and I’ll be mighty glad to be afloat again.”

“’Tis wonderful fine,” admitted Dan, rising to lead the way down.

A gentle swell was running, and with a good sailing breeze from the northwest they made excellent progress. To their astonishment, however, they discovered early in the afternoon a long coast line, just discernible, directly east of them.

“Now this must be a bay we’re runnin’ into,” suggested Dan when this new coast was discovered, “and I’m thinkin’ ’t will be best to cross un, for if we runs t’ th’ head of un we’ll be losin’ a rare lot o’ time.”

Accordingly they took an easterly course, and with sunset made a comfortable landing and cheerful camp, where driftwood in plenty was to be found for their stove. It was a cozy, snug camp, and a savory supper of hot broth and boiled birds, added to the satisfaction of having accomplished a good day’s voyage to the southward, made them very jolly and happy.

When they had eaten Dan produced his harmonica and blew a few notes. Suddenly he ceased the music and listened intently, then springing to his feet left the tent. Paul, aware that something of importance had happened, was close at his heels. Outside Dan listened again, keeping silence for several minutes. Then he asked excitedly:

“Does you hear un? Does you hear un?”

“Yes, what is it?” asked Paul, also excited. “Wolves?”

“Dogs! ’Tis husky dogs! They’s huskies clost by t’ th’ east’ard, an’ them’s their dogs howlin’! Hear un!”

They were silent again for a moment, to be certain that there was no mistake, and as the distant “How-oo, how-oo, how-oo” came up from the eastward, Paul shouted:

“Hurrah! Hurrah!” and then threw his cap in the air in an ecstasy of delight.

“They’s down t’ th’ east’ard, an’ we’ll sure see un tomorrow,” said Dan. “When I first hears un in th’ tent, I were thinkin’ ’t were wolves howlin’, they howls so like wolves. But ’t ain’t wolves, ’tis sure husky dogs.”

“And tomorrow we’ll meet people again, even if they are huskies, and our troubles will be ended! Oh, Dan, I’m so thankful I can hardly contain myself!”

They sat and talked about home and the hope of the morrow until late, and even when they did lie down excitement and anticipation kept them still talking and awake until at last they fell into restless sleep.

Long before daybreak Dan arose very quietly for a look at the weather and to light the fire, but quiet as he was Paul heard him. “Is it time to get up, Dan?” he asked.

“’T will soon be time,” answered Dan. “I wakes an’ gets up, for we’re wantin’ t’ be early, sure, so’s t’ be fair ready t’ start soon’s we can see.”

“I can hardly wait to get away!” exclaimed Paul.

Breakfast was eaten in darkness, and the boat loaded and ready for the start before the first hint of dawn appeared in the east. In spite of their impatience Dan deemed it unwise, however, to venture upon the unknown waters until it was sufficiently light to avoid submerged reefs and treacherous bars, and for nearly an hour they were compelled to walk up and down the shore to keep warm, for the morning was stinging cold. At length Dan announced:

“We may’s well be goin’ now. ’T is fair light.”

They hugged the shore closely, turning the boat into every cove and bight, that there might be no possibility of missing the Eskimos for whom they were looking.

“There!” said Dan at length. “There they is!”

Deep down in a cove, in a shelter of a towering ledge of rocks, stood a skin tupek of the Eskimos. Two men and some women and children, who had discovered the approaching boat even before Dan had discovered them, were watching them curiously from the beach.

The welcome was most hospitable, as the welcome of Eskimos always is, everyone shaking hands with Paul and Dan, laughing and greeting them with “Oksunae.”

Presently they learned that one of the men could speak broken English, and Dan related to him, making him understand with some difficulty, their adventures.

“Kablunok soon,” said he, “close.”

“No understand. What’s ‘kablunok’?” Dan asked.

“Kablunok, white man. Very close.”

“Where is un?”

“Post; there,” pointing south. “Very close. Mr. MacTavish.”

The Eskimos indicated a direction apparently inland from their position.

“No water?” asked Dan. “We walk?”

“No; water plenty. Big point,” explained the Eskimo, drawing on the sand two parallel lines, rounded together at one end. “Land,” he explained. “We here,” indicating a point on one side of it, “post here,” indicating another point almost directly opposite. “Umiak, boat, sail round.”

This made the situation clear to Dan. The Eskimo encampment was on one side of a long, narrow peninsula, while on the opposite side of the peninsula was located a trading post, and by sailing around the extreme point of the peninsula they would presently reach the post.

The lads were anxious to proceed at once, but the Eskimos insisted upon their drinking some hot tea which one of the women had prepared. They then said adieu to their friends, and with light hearts and high expectations resumed their journey, which they felt was now, with all its hardships and uncertainties, soon to end.

Early in the forenoon the sun disappeared behind thickening gray clouds, and before midday, when they rounded the point, an early storm was threatening. But the young wanderers gave small thought to this, for presently they were to reach the post, where they would be secure from wintry blast and driving snow. In their impatience the time passed tediously, and dusk was settling when at last Dan exclaimed:

“There she is! There’s th’ post!”

Lying back from the shore were the low white buildings of Fort Reliance, a famous post of the Hudson Bay Company. Smoke was rising from its chimneys, and as they looked lights began to flicker in the windows. Behind the post rose rugged, barren hills of storm-scoured rocks. On a flat bit of ground to the westward of the buildings Indian campfires lighted the thickening gloom, and in dark silhouette Indian tepees stood out against the sky line. But despite its austere setting and bleak surroundings, old Fort Reliance appealed to the two expectant, weather-beaten youths as the most attractive haven on earth.

It was quite dark when the bow of their boat finally grated upon the gravelly beach below the post. The landing was deserted, save by skulking, sinister-looking wolf dogs which prowled about, snarling at one another, ever ready to attack the unwary man or beast that fell in their way.

The first flakes of the coming snowstorm were falling as the boys sprang ashore and made fast their boat. This secured, they followed a well-beaten path to the door of a long, low building whose cheerfully lighted windows bespoke warmth and comfort within. On the threshold they hesitated for a moment, then Dan knocked boldly upon the door.

“Come in,” a voice called.

Paul took the lead, and entering they found themselves in a large square room, lighted by kerosene lamps and heated by a big wood stove which crackled a cheery welcome. Next the walls were several desks, two of them occupied by young men busily engaged with their pens.

“Why, hello,” said the one near the door. “I thought it was one of the men. Are you up from York factory?”

“No,” answered Paul, “we came from the north. We got lost in the fog, and our ship got away without us.” With this introduction he told the story briefly of their experiences. “And,” continued he, “we want to put up here until a ship comes for us. I suppose that won’t be until next summer, but my father will send it then, and he’ll pay your bill.”

“You’ll have to talk with Mr. MacTavish, the master of the post, about that. He’ll be in soon. Sit down.”

Presently the door opened, and a tall, broad-shouldered, powerful man, with full gray beard and shrewd eyes, entered. The young man stepped smartly forward.

“These young fellows went adrift from their ship somewhere to the northward, sir,” said he. “They’ve worked their way down here in a small boat, and they want to be put up for the winter.”

Paul and Dan had respectfully risen to their feet. Mr. MacTavish’s appearance as he surveyed them was anything but reassuring. There was a certain hard look about his eyes and mouth that was repelling. His attitude was not cordial, even before he spoke.

“Do you want to buy provisions?”

“No,” answered Paul, “we want to put up here for the winter.”

“This isn’t a hotel; it’s a Hudson Bay trading post. If you want to pitch your tent, one of the men will point you out a good place, and you can buy provisions at the shop.”

“But,” said Paul, his heart sinking, “we haven’t any money,” and he proceeded again to relate with detail the story of their adventures. “My father is rich,” he added, “and he’ll pay all our expenses when the ship comes for us. You must have heard of him. He is John Densmore, president of the Atlantic and Pacific Steamship Company, and the head of a lot of other big companies.”

“I tell you this isn’t a hotel, young man, and even if your father is all you say, it’s no recommendation to me. I don’t like you Americans. But to be plain, I don’t believe your yarn. I know your type. You’ve deserted from a whaler, and you probably stole the boat you have. I can harbor neither thieves nor deserters,” and he turned toward one of the desks in dismissal of them.

For a moment Paul was quite stupefied with the affront. Then his pride and a sense of deep injustice roused his antagonism, and, stepping before the bulky figure of Factor MacTavish, he exclaimed:

“Do you mean to call us deserters and thieves? You’re the head of this place and you can do as you want to about giving us a place to stay, but you can’t call us thieves and deserters. I want you to understand I’m a gentleman, and I won’t be spoken to in this way by one like you.”

With this outbreak Paul’s lips began to tremble, and he was at the point of tears. Factor MacTavish was taken wholly by surprise. He was accustomed to browbeat and insult the natives and people under him, and none ever ventured a retort. Here was a different type of person. He had expected a cringing appeal to follow his cruel charge. But instead this youth, placing honor and good name above any consideration of personal comfort and safety, boldly defied him. Here certainly was a youth of spirit and of courage, and he admired the characteristics. The big man looked down at Paul in silent, amused astonishment. This attitude angered Paul almost beyond restraint. His eyes flashed, he doubled his fists, and swallowing his emotion, blurted out:

“I feel like striking you! You’re a big coward to speak to two boys that way!”

Dan had until now kept silent. Paul’s speech quite dumbfounded him for a moment, but quickly aware that his friend was thoroughly in earnest in the threat, and fearing that he would actually attack the big man, he grabbed Paul’s arm and drew him back.

“Don’t strike un, Paul! Don’t strike un!” Dan exclaimed. “’T will do no good. He knows what he says ain’t true, an’ we know it ain’t true. Dad says when a feller knows he’s right, an’ he knows th’ Lord knows he’s right, it don’t matter what folks says or thinks.”

Factor MacTavish laughed, and in the laugh was a note of good humor. The defiance of these two lads scarcely reaching to his shoulder amused him, and he could not but admire the display of courage in the face of odds.

“Well, you’ve got some spunk, and I like spunk. You may stay over night. It’s snowing, and you’d better go to the men’s house for tonight. We always put up travelers one night. James,” to one of the clerks, “show them the men’s house.”

“We won’t stay a single night unless you take back what you said about our being thieves and deserters,” broke in Paul, his defiant attitude unabated. “We’re honest, and we’re not beggars crawling after you.”

“I don’t know whether you’re honest or not, or anything about you. You may be what you say you are. Now, if you want to accept a night’s lodging, it’s open to you, and I’ll talk to you tomorrow. James, show these boys to the men’s house.”

“You say you were wrong in calling us thieves?” insisted Paul.

“Perhaps I was. We won’t talk about it now,” and he turned to one of the desks to put an end to the discussion.

“We’ll take that for an apology,” said Paul, somewhat mollified. “Thank you.”

James, the clerk, introduced them to the men’s house, and presently they had their things under cover, secure from the now heavily falling snow, and ate their supper of cold roast lynx from their own larder, supplemented by a pot of hot tea generously donated by the half-breed Indian cook.

CHAPTER XIII
WINTER SHELTER AND HARD WORK

“PAUL,” said Dan, after the half-breed cook who brought them the tea had returned to his preparation of supper, “you’re wonderful brave. I’m thinkin’ now you would have hit th’ master if I hadn’t been interferin’.”

“I’m afraid I would, and then he’d have pitched us both out,” admitted Paul. “It wasn’t because I was brave, though, but I was mad all through when he called us thieves. Think of it!”

“’T were brave o’ you. I’m thinkin’ you’d fight anything if ’t were called for. But when we gets on th’ ice pan, first off, I were misjudgin’ you; you seemed scared and I were thinkin’ you timid. You’re a rare lot braver ’n me.”

“No, I’m not, Dan.”

“Yes you is. See th’ way you fit th’ lynx, an’ killed un, too. An’ th’ way you stands up t’ that man is sure wonderful.”

“I had to fight the lynx; it made me. And that man’s a big coward. What do you suppose he’s going to do with us? Turn us out in the snow to starve or freeze to death? I feel as though I’d like to punch him now!” And Paul clenched his fists. “Called us thieves! Why, Dan, I never had any reason to steal, and you wouldn’t take a pin that didn’t belong to you.”

“Neither of us would steal, an’ I’m thinkin’ he knows un well enough.”

“What shall we do if he turns us out?”

“’Tis hard t’ say. I’m thinkin’ we’ll be goin’ back in th’ bush, an’ stop t’ hunt when we finds a good place.”

The wind had risen to a tempest, and it shrieked and howled around the building now in a way that made the boys appreciate the snug warmth of the shelter, and led Dan to remark:

“We needs clothes. We’ll be sure freezin’ t’ death without un, an’ th’ cold weather comin’ on.”

Somewhere outside a bell clanged several strokes. Presently the door opened, and three men, shaking snow from their caps and stamping it from their feet, entered.

“’Tis a wild nicht,” said one, a big, grizzly bearded fellow, after they had formally greeted Paul and Dan. “Ye arrived just in time, laddies. Are ye up from York Factory?”

“No,” answered Paul, “we came from the north.”

“And how, now, could that be? The ship’s away this lang time.”

Paul explained briefly how they had gone adrift, and their subsequent adventures, up to the time of meeting Factor MacTavish.

“My name,” he added, “is Paul Densmore, and my friend is Dan Rudd.”

“I’m glad t’ meet ye lads. My name is Tammas Ferguson, and this is Sam’l Hogart, and this Amos Tupper,” introducing his companions.

During this conversation and ceremony the men were washing and preparing for supper, and as they sat down Amos invited:

“Set in to the tyble, and ’ave a bite to heat.”

“Thank you, we’ve eaten,” answered Paul.

“Coom, laddies, and have a bite mair,” urged Tammas. “’T will do ye no harm this cowld nicht.”

Chuck, the half-breed cook, at this juncture placed a plate piled high with bread upon the table, and this offered a temptation too great to resist. They were longing for bread above all things in the world, and with a “Thank you” they took the seats assigned them without further objection.

“Ye’ll be bidin’ wi’ us the winter, and ye must no be backward,” encouraged Tammas.

They were not in the least backward. They ate a great deal of Chuck’s indifferent, soggy bread, sopped in black molasses, and thought it delicious, and each drank at least three cups of strong tea.

“And did ye see the master?” asked Tammas when supper was over and all were seated about the hot stove.

“Yes,” answered Paul, “and he told us we could stay only tonight.”

“Did he say that now?”

“’E needs men. ’E’s short’anded, and ’e needs more men,” broke in Amos. “Tomorrow ’e’ll be hengaging you.”

“There’s no doot o’ that. So don’t worry, lads, aboot the morrow,” encouraged Tammas.

The men filled their pipes with tobacco cut from black plugs, and chatted with each other and the boys, whom they drew hospitably into their group. Dan played several airs upon his harmonica, to their great delight, and Paul described the wonders of New York, which Amos always endeavored to discount with descriptions of what he considered the greater wonders of London.

When bedtime finally came, Tammas stepped out of doors for “a look at the weather.”

“’Tis an awfu’ nicht,” he announced upon his return. “’Tis fortunate you lads made post as ye did. Ye’d ha’ perished in the cowld and snow of this nicht.”

Paul and Dan spread their blankets on the floor, and very thankful they were for the shelter. Outside the wind howled dismally, and dashed the snow against the windows.

Morning brought no abatement of the storm. If possible the snow fell more thickly and the wind blew more fiercely. The office building, ten yards from the door of the men’s house, could scarcely be made out, and the boys rejoiced anew at their safety.

Breakfast was eaten by lamplight. Tammas insisted that the lads join in the meal, and when the bell clanged to call the men to work, he admonished:

“If the master is hard, and says ye canna’ remain, coom to me at the smithy. I’ll ne’er be seein’ ye turned out in this awfu’ storm, an’ neither will Sam’l or Amos. If there’s no ither way, we’ll pay for your keep.”

“Aye, that we will,” assented both Amos and Samuel.

“Thank you,” said Paul. “If you do, my father will pay you back.”

“The master’s apt to be ’ard, but stand up to ’im. ’E likes men with grit to stand up and face ’im,” advised Amos, as the three went out to their work.

“Well, those are men with hearts, and true friends, and even if they are rough looking, they’re gentlemen,” remarked Paul, as the door closed.

“’T ain’t clothes or money as makes a man,” said Dan. “Dad says ’tis th’ heart under th’ shirt.”

They dreaded the meeting with David MacTavish, the factor, and for half an hour they hesitated to face the ordeal.

“But they ain’t no use puttin’ un off,” suggested Dan, finally, after they had discussed at some length the probable outcome of the coming interview. “What we has t’ do, we has t’ do, an’ th’ sooner ’tis done th’ sooner ’tis over. An’ you knows wonderful well, Paul, how t’ talk t’ he.”

“I’m not afraid of him,” declared Paul, working up his courage. “Let’s go now and see if he’s in the office.”

Factor MacTavish was in his office, busy with accounts, when they entered, but for full ten minutes he ignored their presence. Finally looking up he said, in a much pleasanter tone than that of the previous evening:

“Come here, boys.”

They stepped up to his desk.

“How did you pass the night?” he asked.

“Very comfortably, thank you,” answered Paul.

“I’ve been thinking about you fellows, and I’ve decided to let you remain at the post and work for your living. We’re shorthanded, and it’s mighty lucky for you that we are, for we can’t keep hangers-on and idlers around here. You—what is your name?”

“Paul Densmore.”

“You go over to the blacksmith’s shop, and help Thomas Ferguson, and do whatever he wants you to do. And you other fellow, what’s your name?”

“Dan’l Rudd, sir.”

“You can help Amos Tupper in the cooper shop.”

“Yes, sir.”

“When they haven’t anything for you to do, there’s plenty of wood to saw and split, and enough to keep you busy. Now get out.”

Then Paul and Dan turned to go.

“Hold on! You’ll stay in the men’s house with the others. Are those the only clothes you have?”

“All except some underclothes,” answered Paul.

“Well, they’ll not be enough for winter. James,” to the chief clerk, “have adikeys made for these fellows, and some duffel socks and deerskin moccasins, and a pair of mittens for each. Now if you fellows prove yourselves useful you can stay here for the winter, and if you don’t I’ll kick you both out of the post. You may go.”

It was an effort for Paul to restrain himself from making a defiant reply, but he realized in time that this might get them into trouble. He felt incensed that his word had not been taken, when he promised that his father would pay his own and Dan’s expenses. He was on the whole very glad, however, that even this arrangement had been made, for the storm had brought him a realization of the fruitlessness of any attempt to live in the open with their insufficient equipment, together with the uncertainty of killing sufficient game to sustain them.

And so Paul Densmore, the only son of a king of finance, a youth who would one day be a multi-millionaire in his own right, was glad enough to earn his living as a common laborer.