“He’s been through a lot. The men on the northern patrol have a tough time,” the listening man thought.
Occasionally, as the days passed, Morely went out with his rifle, returning with fresh meat.
The fever abated, the crisis passed. “Pulled him through,” Morely thought, a light of professional satisfaction in his eyes.
He closed the blue service book, belonging to Hardy. The book he had been studying and memorizing. While Hardy slept, his first deep natural sleep since his illness, Morely stripped off his own clothing.
“Fortunate thing we are the same height and build,” he thought as he donned Hardy’s uniform, which he had fumigated.
Completely garbed in Sergeant Hardy’s uniform, he was remarkably like the officer, in figure. Only the face was different, and that would be partly concealed by the fur parka hood.
“In this uniform I can get to Montreal, without pursuit. There, I can secure other clothing, draw funds from the bank, and get to the border. From now, until I reach Montreal, I’m Sergeant Porter Hardy!” The man’s shoulders straightened, his head went up.
“I am absolutely safe. It will be weeks before the officer can get out, renew pursuit. By that time, I’ll be in the States.”
He turned, walked to the bunk, stood staring down at the quietly sleeping man. “Glad I didn’t leave him to die like a dog,” he murmured. “Haven’t that on my conscience.”
Hardy turned, opened his eyes with the light of returned reason in them. He stared at the uniformed figure beside him. A perplexed gaze was in his eyes, then slowly he looked around the cabin.