"I'll give you twenty-four."
"It's an order, you see. Rainey—"
"I'll give you twenty-six."
Benham shook his head.
"Sorry. Yes, it's queer about the hold this country gets on you. The first year is hell, the second is purgatory, with glimpses ... of something else. The third—well, more and more, forever after, you realise the North's taken away any taste you ever had for civilisation. That's when you've got the hang of things up here, when you've learned not to stay in your cabin all the time, and how to take care of yourself on the trail. But as for going back to the boredom of cities—no, thank you."
Mac couldn't keep his eyes off the little coat. Finally, to enable him to forget it, as it seemed, he got up and opened Father Wills' letter, devoured its contents in silence, and flung it down on the table. The Colonel took it up, and read aloud the Father's thanks for all the white camp's kindness to Kaviak, and now that the sickness was about gone from Holy Cross, how the Fathers felt that they must relieve their neighbours of further trouble with the little native.
"I've said I'd take him back with me when I come up river about Christmas."
"We'd be kind o' lost, now, without the little beggar," said the Boy, glancing sideways at Mac.
"There's nothin' to be got by luggin' him off to Holy Cross," answered that gentleman severely.
"Unless it's clo'es," said Potts.