Weston held up the lamp so the rest could see him. His face was black, and the sleeve of his duck jacket had several big holes in it. His trousers were rent in places, and one of his long boots was burst, while Devine’s hat, which was too big for him, hung shapeless and dotted with charred holes on his head.
“I’m going back to Montreal in a day or two. Can I call on big stock-jobbers and company floaters like this?”
“Guess you can buy new ones in Montreal,” said the miner.
“You can,” agreed Weston, “when you have the money. The trouble is, I haven’t. Saunders, I’m going back for those clothes.”
They went with him to the mouth of the adit and saw the shack outlined against a dazzling blaze. It did not seem to be burning yet, but none of Weston’s companions believed that it would be possible for him to reach it. The smoke had risen, and now rolled among the tops of the firs, but, though they stood at some distance from the fire, the air scorched their faces. Weston’s showed up in the lurid radiance worn and very grim, and it was evident to Devine that the curious moodiness which had troubled him since he came back from the city was at least as strong as it had been.
“You can’t get them now,” he expostulated.
“Give me your jacket,” said Weston, sharply. “It’s thicker than the thing I have on.”
The surveyor hesitated. He could see the sparks and blazing fragments stream past the shack, and he had no wish to encourage his comrade in the rashness he contemplated.
“Well,” said Weston, “I’ll go as I am.”
Then Saunders remembered something, and seized him by the shoulder.