e went on, after a pause, "there's
just one thing I'm going to ask you before I pull out. It's a promise I
want. When the time comes for me to pay, will you tell her? Will you
tell them both? If I'm gone will you tell them the thing you know--all
of it? Don't make me out to be any old angel I guess you'd like to paint
me. Just hand 'em the story of the white-livered creature I am, without
the nerve of a jack-rabbit. Will you do that?"

He held out a hand from which he removed his fur mitt. Bat turned. He
saw the hand, and disregarded it in a surge of feeling.

"Tell 'em? Tell 'em?" he cried. "Say, Les, for God Almighty's sake don't
you pull out. You're my friend. You're the one feller in the world that
matters a curse to me. Quit boy. Stop right here, an'--"

"Will you tell 'em?"

The hand was thrust further towards the lumberman so that he could no
longer ignore it.

"Hell! Yes!" he cried, in fierce mental anguish. "I'll tell 'em--if I
have to." He seized the outstretched hand in both of his and gripped it
with crushing force. "You're goin'--now?"

"Sure."

Their hands fell apart. Bat's dropped to his side like leaden weights.
"So long," he said dully, as the other took his place in the sled. Then
he added, "So long, Les."

The sled needed breaking out, and the lumberman watched the operation of
it without a word. His emotions were too real, to deep for anything
more. He looked on while the first sharp order was flung at the dogs. He
watched them leap to their feet and stand ready, great, powerful,
untamed souls eager for their, task. Then the man in the sled looked
round as he strung out the long lash of his short-stocked whip.

"So long, Bat," he cried smilingly. And his farewell was instantly
followed by the sharp command to "mush."

* * * * *

Far out on the desolate highlands the dogs broke trail over a waste of
virgin snow. The cold had abated, and the flurry of snow that rose up
under their feet was wet and melting. The way lay through the maze of
woodland bluffs which lined the upper slopes of the course of the Beaver
River. Beyond them, northward, lay the windswept barrens of the
highlands.

Father Adam knew the trail by heart. The maze of bluffs through which he
was passing afforded him no difficulties or anxieties. He read them with
the certainty of wide and long experience. There was nothing new that
Labrador had to show him. He knew it all, and revelled in the