“If I could only get you away from it all!”
“I have been through it alone,” said Loseis. “Now I have you!”
Later in the afternoon Conacher was sitting by himself at the door, still revolving their chances of receiving help from the outside, when suddenly he perceived a bark canoe with two figures in it coming down the river.
“By God! here’s something to break the suspense!” he cried, leaping up.
Loseis ran to the door. But when she saw the canoe her face showed no relief nor gladness. She suspected who was in it.
And when the canoe landed in the creek mouth, presently an all-too-familiar little rotund figure rose over the top of the bank.
“Tatateecha,” said Loseis in a listless voice.
Conacher’s face fell like a child’s. He groaned aloud in his anger and disappointment. “Oh, the miserable cur!” he cried.
“What would you expect of a Slavi?” said Loseis, shrugging.
They waited for him in a bitter silence. Tatateecha came plodding up the grassy rise with the air of a guilty schoolboy. His companion remained in the canoe. Reaching the top, Tatateecha, with an absurd pretense of not seeing Conacher and Loseis, headed straight across towards the store. Loseis summoned him peremptorily. He came like a dog to get his whipping, twisting his body, and grinning in sickening fear. Still trying to make out that nothing was the matter, he said something to Loseis that caused her to laugh a single bitter note.