The Boy had hoped to go to Pymeut the next day, but his feet refused to carry him. Mac took a diagram and special directions, and went after the rest of elephas, conveying the few clumsy relics home, bit by bit, with a devotion worthy of a pious pilgrim.
For three days the Boy growled and played games with Kaviak, going about at first chiefly on hands and knees.
On the fifth day after the Blow-Out, "You comin' long to Pymeut this mornin'?" he asked the Colonel.
"What's the rush?"
"Rush! Good Lord! it's 'most a week since they were here. And it's stopped snowin', and hasn't thought of sleetin' yet or anything else rambunksious. Come on, Colonel."
But Father Wills had shown the Colonel the piece of dirty paper the Indian had brought on the night of the Blow-Out.
"Trouble threatened. Pymeuts think old chief dying not of consumption, but of a devil. They've sent a dogteam to bring the Shamán down over the ice. Come quickly.—PAUL."
"Reckon we'd better hold our horses till we hear from Holy Cross."
"Hear what?"
The Colonel didn't answer, but the Boy didn't wait to listen. He swallowed his coffee scalding hot, rolled up some food and stuff for trading, in a light reindeer skin blanket, lashed it packwise on his back, shouldered his gun, and made off before the Trio came in to breakfast.