“Don’t you worry about that,” broke in Norman. “I think we feel a good deal the same way about this. Besides, aren’t we working for you?”
“Nothing like that!” expostulated the oil prospector. “This isn’t an order.”
“I’ll help get the stuff ready,” began Paul, “for I know that’s all I can do. Is this Chandler trapping near there?” he went on, as he gulped down the last of his tea.
“Says he’s been helping them,” explained Colonel Howell, “but he couldn’t have done much, judging by his appearance.”
“Is he going back there?” asked Roy curiously.
“He didn’t say,” answered Colonel Howell slowly. “But he’s got his money now and I imagine he won’t go much farther than Fort McMurray. I don’t care for him and I don’t like him around the camp. He’s too busy talking when the men ought to be at work.”
It was an ideal winter’s day, the atmosphere clear and the temperature just below zero. There was no cause for delay and while Norman made a tracing and a scale of the route, Paul and Roy drew the Gitchie Manitou into the open. Colonel Howell and the half-breed cook had been busy in the storehouse, arranging packets of flour and cutting up sides of fat pork. Small packages of tea were also prepared, together with sugar, salt and half a case of evaporated fruit. The only bread on hand was the remainder of Philip’s last baking of bannock.
“See how things are,” suggested Colonel Howell, when these articles were passed up to Roy, “and if they’re as bad as Chandler says, we’ll have to send Philip out for a moose. These things’ll carry ’em along for a few days at least.”
The look on the young Count’s face was such that Norman was disturbed.
“Paul, old man,” he said, “I know you’d like to go with us and we’d like to have you. But we’ve got more than the weight of a third man in all this food. I hope you don’t feel disappointed.”