An
unusual man, this Tavish. I wish he would come. I am anxious for you to
meet him."
That his mind was quite easy on the score of Tavish's physical
well-being he emphasized by falling asleep very shortly after rolling
himself up in his blankets on the floor. During their three nights in
camp David had marvelled at and envied the ease with which Father Roland
could drop off into profound and satisfactory slumber, this being, as
his new friend had explained to him, the great and underlying virtue of
a good stomach. To-night, however, the Missioner's deep and regular
breathing as he lay on the floor was a matter of vexation to him. He
wanted him awake. He wanted him up and alive, thoroughly alive, when
Tavish came. "Pounding his ear like a tenderfoot," he thought, "while I,
a puppy in harness, couldn't sleep if I wanted to." He was nervously
alert. He filled his pipe for the third or fourth time and sat down on
the edge of the bunk, listening for Tavish. He was certain, from all
that had been said, that Tavish would come. All he had to do was wait.
There had been growing in him, a bit unconsciously at first, a feeling
of animosity toward Tavish, an emotion that burned in him with a
gathering fierceness as he sat alone in the dim light of the cabin,
grinding out in his mental restlessness visions of what Tavish might
have done.
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