“Of course!” murmured Three-Ace Artie softly. “You've got a reputation for doing that, sergeant.” He laughed pleasantly. “But you haven't dropped in on me officially, have you?”
Sergeant Marden, big, thick-set, with a strong, kindly face, with gray eyes that lighted now in a gravely humorous way shook his head.
“No,” he answered. “I'm playing the 'old friend' rôle to-night.”
“Good!” exclaimed Three-Ace Artie heartily. “Peel off your duds then, and—will you have the bunk, or the chair? Take your choice—only make yourself at home.” He stepped over to the cupboard, and, while the sergeant pulled off his cap and mitts, and unbuttoned and threw back his overcoat, Three-Ace Artie procured a bottle of whisky and two glasses, which he set upon the table. “Help yourself, sergeant,” he invited cordially.
The sergeant shook his head again, as he drew the chair toward him and sat down.
“I don't think I'll take anything to-night,” he said.
“No?”—Three-Ace Artie's voice expressed the polite regret of a perfect host. “Well, fill your pipe then,” he suggested hospitably, as he seated himself on the edge of the bunk. He began to fill his own pipe deliberately, apparently wholly preoccupied for the moment with that homely operation—but his mind was leaping in lightning flashes back over the range of the four years that he had spent in the Yukon. What exactly did Sergeant Marden of the Royal North-West Mounted want with him to-night? He had known the other for a good while, it was true—but not in a fashion to warrant the sergeant in making a haphazard social call at midnight after what must have been a long, hard day on the trail.
A match, drawn with a long sweep under the table, crackled; Sergeant Marden lighted his pipe, and flipped the match-stub stovewards.
“It looks as though Canuck John wouldn't pull through the night,” he said gravely.
“Canuck John!” Three-Ace Artie sat up with a jerk, and glanced sharply at the other. “What's that you say?”