There were pipes of all the governors and all the factors of the post from its earliest foundation. Many of the men whose souvenirs were there had long since been forgotten, yet their names and pipes still remained.
In the fifth row, seventh from the left, hung a splendid briar that Donald had contributed, and it was to this that Peter Rainy had referred, since there was a rule that a man might borrow his pipe if he needed it, but must be sure to have it returned to its proper place.
Why should he break his pipe, and ask for the one in the hallway? That in his pocket was sweet and rich and mellow, the one in the hall an unsmoked instrument, which would keep his tongue blistered for many a day. But how to get it, even should he want it? That was a question he could not solve.
After a while, the prisoner, worn out with his long tramp, lay down on his cot, and fell into a heavy sleep, from which he was awakened by the old Indian, who came to bring him his breakfast. With the latter came a message utterly disconcerting.
“Captain McTavish,” said the man, “there will be someone here to visit you later this morning.”
“Who?”
“Miss Laura Fitzpatrick.”
Donald gasped.
“What have I done to deserve this punishment?” he asked himself. And then, aloud: “Why is she coming to see me?”
“I don't know,” was the answer; “she merely told me to tell you.”