"Me no can," returned Nicholas, with engaging modesty. "You—" He conveyed a limitless confidence.
"Well, I'll be jiggered if I don't try. How far is it?"
"Go slow—one sleep."
"Well, we won't go slow. We've got to do penance. When shall we start?"
"Too late now. Tomalla," said the Ol' Chief.
They got up very early—it seemed to the Boy like the middle of the night—stole out of the dark Kachime, and hurried over the hard crust that had formed on the last fall of snow, down the bleak, dim slope to the Ol' Chief's, where they were to breakfast.
Not only Muckluck was up and doing, but the Ol' Chief seemed galvanised into unwonted activity. He was doddering about between his bed and the fire, laying out the most imposing parkis and fox-skins, fur blankets, and a pair of seal-skin mittens, all of which, apparently, he had had secreted under his bed, or between it and the wall.
They made a sumptuous breakfast of tea, the last of the bacon the Boy had brought, and slapjacks.
The Boy kept looking from time to time at the display of furs. Father Wills was right; he ought to buy a parki with a hood, but he had meant to have the priest's advice, or Mac's, at least, before investing. Ol' Chief watching him surreptitiously, and seeing he was no nearer making an offer, felt he should have some encouragement. He picked up the seal-skin mittens and held them out.