Left alone Hume sat down to the pine table at one end of the room and after a short hesitation began to write. For hours he sat there, rising only to put wood on the fire. The result was three letters: the largest addressed to a famous society in London, one to a solicitor in Montreal, and one to Mr. Field, the chief factor. They were all sealed carefully. Then he rose, took out his knife, and went over to the box as if to break the red seal. He paused, however, sighed, and put the knife back again. As he did so he felt something touch his leg. It was the dog.
Hume drew in a sharp breath and said: “It was all ready, Bouche; and in another six months I should have been in London with it. But it will go whether I go or not—whether I go or not, Bouche.”
The dog sprang up and put his head against his master’s breast.
“Good dog, good dog, it’s all right, Bouche; however it goes, it’s all right,” said Hume.
Then the dog lay down and watched his master until he drew the blankets to his chin, and sleep drew oblivion over a fighting soul.
II
At ten o’clock next morning Jaspar Hume presented himself at the chief factor’s office. He bore with him the letters he had written the night before.
The factor said: “Well, Hume, I am glad to see you. That woman’s letter was on my mind all night. Have you anything to propose? I suppose not,” he added despairingly, as he looked closely into the face of the other. “Yes, Mr. Field, I propose that the expedition start at noon to-day.”
“Start-at noon-to-day?”