“That,” Ferguson returned gravely, “is in one sense very true.”
They sat up late, talking; and the next morning Kermode found means of sending Foster’s horses back, and then resumed his journey.
CHAPTER XVII
THE PASSAGE OF THE MOUNTAINS
Kermode had been gone a fortnight when Prescott reached the camp and heard from Ferguson and others of his latest exploit. He smiled as he listened to their stories, but that he should find people willing to talk about the man did not surprise him. Kermode was not likely to pass unnoticed: his talents were of a kind that seized attention. Where he went there was laughter and sometimes strife; he had a trick of winning warm attachment, and even where his departure was not regretted he was remembered.
Ferguson insisted on taking Prescott in, for his comrade’s sake, and late one evening he sat talking with him beside the stove. His house was rudely put together, shingle-roofed and walled with shiplap boards that gave out strong resinous odors. The joints were not tight and stinging draughts crept in. Deep snow lay about the camp and the frost was keen.
“I can’t venture to predict Kermode’s movements,” said the clergyman. “It was his intention to make for a camp half-way to the coast, but he may change his mind long before he gets there.”
“Yes,” Prescott replied; “that’s the kind of man he is.”