dy. At his word they broke the
runners out of the snow, barking excitedly, but for the time being
they were only driven across the way to the post-office for the
mail-bag.

Sophy handed the pouch to him, her face none too agreeable.

"Dat all vhat dere is for Toumichouan?" asked the man.

"Yes, that's all," answered the girl, snappily. "There's a parcel here
for Papineau and a letter for Tom Carew's wife. If you see any one
going by way of Roaring River tell him to stop there and let 'em
know."

"You can gif 'em to me, too," said Big Stefan. "I'm goin' dat vay. I
got one of dem telegraft tings for Hugo Ennis."

Sophy rushed out from behind the counter.

"Let me see it!" she said.

"No, ma'am," said Stefan, calmly. "It is shut anyvays, de paper is.
Follansbee he youst gif it to me. I tank nobotty open dat telegraft
now till Hugo he get it."

He tucked the mail-bag and the parcel under one arm and went out,
placing the former in a box that was lashed to the toboggan. Then he
clicked at his dogs, who began to trot off easily towards the rise of
ground at the side of the big lake. It was a sheet of streaky white,
smooth or hummocky according to varying effects of wind and falling
levels. Far out on its surface he saw two black dots that were a pair
of ravens, walking in dignified fashion and pecking at some
indistinguishable treasure trove. At the summit of the rise he clicked
again and the dogs went on faster, the man running behind with the
tireless, flat-footed gait of the trained traveler of the wilderness.

In the meanwhile old McGurn was busy in the store and Sophy put on her
woollen _tuque_ and her mitts.

"I'm going over to the depot and see about that box of Dutch socks,"
she announced.

"'T ain't due yet," observed her father.

"I'm going to see, anyway," she answered.

In the station she found Joe Follansbee in his little office. The
telegraphic sounder was clicking away, with queer sudden interruptions,
in the manner that is so mysterious to the uninitiated.

"Are you busy, Joe?" she asked him, graciously.

"Sure thing!" answered the young fellow, grinning pleasantly. "There's
the usual stuff. The 4.19 is two hours late, and I've had one whole
private message. Gettin' to be a busy place, Carcajou is."

"Who's getting messages? Old man Symonds at the mill?"

"Ye'll have to guess again. It's a wire all the way from New York."

"What was it about, Joe?" she asked, in her very sweetest manner.