On such occasions, Sol Burke, the old man who owned the cabin, was always an earnest listener. He seldom spoke, but would lean forward, as if drinking in every word, and puff away steadily at his strong black pipe. "Caribou" Sol, the name by which he was generally known, was not the only one interested in these tales. Others drifted into the shack, and listened too, strapping fellows, some of them, who would remain very still while the story continued. It was in their own cabins where they gave vent to their feelings.
"By gar," said one brawny chap, "that was a crack-a-jack yarn the parson read to-day. It tickled me, it did, about that Trotty, and his daughter. Wasn't she a brick?"
"And did ye see Sol when he read about the chap wid the kid in his arms?" asked another.
"No, what about him?"
"Why, he leaned right over, and even forgot his pipe. I never saw such a wistful look in any man's face."
"That's nothing. I guess we all looked pretty much that way."
One night when Joe was almost recovered, Keith walked back to his lonely cabin lost in thought. He had been reading, as usual, and the small shack had been crowded to its utmost capacity. For several days, as he watched the men, he had been wondering what he could do to make their lives a little brighter. He knew very well how cheerless were their cabins. Four square walls of rough-hewn logs, unrelieved by ornament or picture; a bunk, a sheet-iron camping stove, one or two three-legged stools, and a small table filled the room, dimly lighted by one feeble candle.
In addition to such dreary abodes were the long nights, the cheerless silence, with no one to care whether a man lived or died; no news from the great outside world, and one day dragging wearily to a close, only to be succeeded by another, and then another, through long dreary months. Sometimes the men would meet together, but the cabins were all much alike. Perdue's store was the only bright spot, and there the men wandered.
Keith thought of all this. What could he do? What right had he to be a missionary, a saviour of souls, if he had no line to let out, or boat to launch in the hour of need?
Reaching his cabin, he sat for some time at the small table where he carried on his writing and translational work. His few choice books looked down upon him from their rude shelves.