“It’s true, nobody wants a geologist but the government. But I’m young; I’ll make out somehow.”
“Oh, my God! this is terrible!” cried Jordan. “We’re so shorthanded already!”
“Do you blame me?” demanded Conacher.
Jordan’s expression changed. “No, I don’t blame you, really,” he said. “Go on back, and God bless you! . . . But it’s me that’s got to face the boss. You know what he is. At the first mention of a girl he will think the worst. He’s depending on your Indians, too.”
“Take them,” said Conacher. “Your dug-out is big enough to carry all five. I couldn’t pay them anyhow. All I want of the government is enough grub to see me through.”
“It’s foolhardy to travel alone!” cried Jordan.
“That’s all right,” said Conacher. “I’m not going to break a leg this trip. I can’t afford to. The only thing that bothers me is, it’s all up-stream work. I can’t make but twenty miles a day.”
“I wish it was me,” said Jordan enviously.
CHAPTER XII
FUR
Quite early in the morning, Loseis, issuing out of her house, was greatly astonished to see the door of the little fur warehouse standing open, and the bales of fur being carried out by Gault’s Crees. This warehouse flanked the store on the left hand side as you faced the river; on the other side there was a similar building for the storage of flour. Loseis’ breast grew hot at the sight; and without more ado, she marched across. Gault was not in sight; Moale was directing the Crees.