his wind, and was listening to him.
One look at his dark, thin face told McKay that he was the wilderness
man of the three. He was staring at Jolly Roger in a strange sort of
way. And then, as if catching himself, he nodded, and began rubbing his
frosted face with handfuls of snow.

Porter had thrown off his heavy coat, and was unpacking one of the
dunnage sacks. He and the girl seemed to have suffered less than the
other two. Jo, the girl, was looking at him. And then her eyes turned to
Jolly Roger. They were large, fine eyes, wide open and clear now. There
was something of splendid strength about her as she smiled at McKay. She
was not of the hysterical sort. He could see that.

"If we could have some hot soup," she suggested. "May we?"

There was gratitude in her eyes, which she made no attempt to express in
words. Jolly Roger liked her. And Peter crept up behind her, and watched
her as she followed Breault's example, and rubbed the cheeks of the
bearded man with snow.

"There's an alcohol stove in the other pack," said Breault, with his
hard, narrow eyes fixed steadily on Jolly Roger's face. "By the way,
what did you say your name was?"

"Cummings--John Cummings."

Breault made no answer. During the next half hour Jolly Roger felt
stealing over him a growing sense of uneasiness. They drank soup and ate
bannock. It grew warm, and the girl threw off the heavy fur garment that
enveloped her. Color returned into her cheeks. Her eyes were bright, and
in her voice was a tremble of happiness at finding warmth and life where
she had expected death. Porter's friendliness was almost brotherly. He
explained what had happened. Two rascally Chippewyans had deserted them,
stealing off into darkness and storm with both dog teams and one of
their sledges. After that they had fought on, seeking for a drift into
which they might dig a refuge. But the Barren was as smooth as a
table. They had shouted, and Miss Tavish had screamed--not because they
expected to find assistance--but on account of Tavish falling in the
storm, and losing himself. It was quite a joke, Porter thought, that
Superintendent Tavish, one of the iron men of the service, should have
given up the ghost so easily.

Tavish smiled grimly. They were all in good humor, and happy, with the
possible exception of Breault. Not once did he laugh or smile. Yet Jolly
Roger noted that each time he spoke the others were specially attentive.
There was something repressive