“Oh, in the—the papers.”
“I never see any such accounts. It’s all horrors—freezing and starving to death. Besides, father will be the one to do the sharing and then have to go without. Oh, why did I help him to—”
“Don’t be absurd,” Bella said, almost angrily. “In any case he’s not gone beyond the reach of supply depots.” Neither met the other’s eye.
“But suppose his money gives out—it will give out if it’s true they charge two dollars for a potato. He never could keep any money in his pockets. Oh, it’s all very well for you, your father isn’t sitting on an iceberg starving to death.”
A queer look came into Bella’s little face. It was there, now and then, and gone like a ghost, leaving a troubled tenderness behind.
“It’s not as if he were near a settlement, as the Klondikers are to Dawson City,” Hildegarde went on, yearning for reassurance. “The place father was going to is quite uninhabited, except by a few Esquimaux. Often I can hardly eat for thinking—thinking”—her voice caught—“maybe he is hungry.”
“That’s impossible. He’s much too sensible and clever.”
“What good is it to be sensible and clever if you’ve got nothing to eat?”
“But being sensible and clever will help him to find things to eat.”
“How do you make that out?”