His heart was
pounding. His lungs drank in the cold, balsam-scented air like a suction
pump and expelled each breath with the sibilancy of steam escaping from
a valve.
"Winded!" he gasped. And then, gulping for breath as he looked at Father
Roland, he demanded: "How the devil am I going to keep up with you
fellows on the trail? I'll go bust inside of a mile!"
"And every time you go bust we'll load you on the sledge," comforted the
Missioner, his round face glowing with enthusiastic approval. "You've
done finely, David. Within a fortnight you'll be travelling twenty miles
a day on snow shoes."
He suddenly seemed to think of something that he had forgotten and
fidgeted with his mittens in his hesitation, as if there lay an
unpleasant duty ahead of him. Then he said:
"If there are any letters to write, David ... any business matters...."
"There are no letters," cut in David quickly. "I attended to my affairs
some weeks ago. I am ready."
With a frozen whitefish he returned to Baree. The dog scented him before
the crunch of his footsteps could be heard in the snow, and when he came
out from the thick spruce and balsam into the little open, Baree was
stretched out flat on his belly, his gaunt gray muzzle resting on the
snow between his forepaws.
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