“To-morrow morning, my boy;” and the commissioner rose.
Donald noted, with a little pang of sorrow, that his father's face looked older than he had ever seen it, and conjectured rightly that beneath the surface this gruff man, who had raised himself to second in command of the Company, was profoundly, abjectly miserable.
The elder McTavish rested his hand for a moment on his son's well shoulder.
“I'm going out now,” he said. “I've tired you enough. Try to rest, or Craven will give me the deuce for rousing you... Oh, by the way, Donald, I know all that's happened between you and Fitzpatrick. Rainy told me. I sent old Bill Thompson up here to command Fitzpatrick's presence, when I arrived. Pretty foxy fellow, old Bill; seemed to tell everything, and hear nothing, when it was really the other way about.”
“So that was why he came up here so suddenly. Poor old man, he died game.”
“And he lived game, which is more than I can say of some people higher up,” was the gruff, self-condemnatory appreciation of the dead.
The commissioner was just opening the door of the tent when a bustle and shouting, mingled with the tinkle of sleigh-bells, announced the arrival of a dog-train.
“Hello, father!” cried Donald, “who's that?”
“An old and loved friend of yours.”
“If I've got a real friend except Peter Rainy, please show him in.”