"I may—go—into camp before Christmas."
"Don't yer!" advised the boy magnanimously. "I ain't ever going to care again. You can stay here." Jock forbore to smile, but he laid his hand on Billy's shoulder.
"There's two big stacks of young pine trees up to my shack done round in bagging and ticketed to a place down the State. They're Christmas trees for poor kids, and I want you to see to getting them off for me to-morrow or next day, and if Tom Smith airs any remarks, you let on as how they hailed from the bungalow; for that's God's truth, when all's told."
"They'll go, Jock, you bet!" Billy gulped.
Curiosity was dead within him. Human suffering gave him an insight that soared above idle questioning.
"And Billy, there's another thing. I want you to go to Gaston's shack; tote water and wood for Joyce—and keep your mouth shut. And lay this by in your constitution. Gaston is a man so far above anything God ever created round here, that you can't understand him, but you can try to chase off the dirty insects that want to sting him. Catch on?"
"Yes"; murmured Billy, while unfulfilled duty clutched his vitals with remorse.
"I'm—I'm going up to Gaston's to-morrow," he said.
"And now, you old rip," Filmer shook off his strange mood, "walk up to a fellow's bunk with him. It's good to keep clean company when you can—and for as long as you can."
"Shall—shall I stay all night with you?"