“Yes; at sunrise to-morrow morning, so if you want to see me off, you must take down your shutters early.”
“I am sorry.”
“I am glad,” he cried—“that you are sorry. Been a pleasant trip up, my lad, and I dare say we shall meet again some day. We will, if I can manage it.”
“I say, where’s old Quong?” said Esau, suddenly. “Asleep this hour, in the corner there.”
“You want Quong—flesh tea—make blead—now?”
“No, no; go to sleep,” said Gunson, laughing. “Allee light. I get up and makee fi’ keep bun; no let fi’ go out.”
He coiled up again under his blanket, and we sat some little time in silence before Gunson rose.
“Good-night, boys,” he said; and he went to the rough sleeping-place he had chosen.
“S’pose we had better go too,” said Esau, after we had sat looking at the fire a few minutes in silence.
“I’m ready,” I said quickly, and we went to our places, where I lay listening to the hard breathing of my companions, for sleep would not come. All was so new and strange. The fire had sunk down into a faint glow which brightened now and then as a light breeze swept by the house, and then sank down again, making the fireplace look ruddy, while all the rest of the place was intensely dark. Then all grew blacker still, and I was listening to Mr John Dempster’s hopeful words about meeting me at his brother-in-law’s home, and—