He paused and, receiving no answer, shot a crafty look at the man before him.
"Now, if you was able," he went on, "you c'd take the tote-sled down to Hilarity an' fetch us a cook. It seems like that's the onliest way; there ain't nary 'nother man I c'n spare—an' he's a good cook, old Daddy Dunnigan is, if he'll come. He's a independent old cuss—work if he damn good an' feels like it, an' if he don't he won't.
"If you think you c'n tackle it, I'll have the blacksmith whittle you out a crutch, an' you c'n take that long-geared tote team an' make Hilarity in two days. They's double time in it for you," he added, as a matter of special inducement.
Bill did not hesitate over his decision.
"All right; I think I can manage," he said. "When do I start?"
"The team'll be ready early in the mornin'. If you start about four o'clock you c'n make Melton's old No. 8 Camp by night without crowdin' 'em too hard. It's the first one of them old camps you strike, and you c'n stable the horses without unharnessin'; just slip off the bridles an' feed 'em."
Bill nodded. At the door Moncrossen halted and glanced at him peculiarly.
"I'm obliged to you," he said. "For a greener, you've made a good hand. I'll have things got ready."
Bill was surprised that the boss had paid him even this grudging compliment, and as he sat beside the big stove, puzzled over the peculiar glance that had accompanied it.
In a few minutes, however, he dismissed the matter and turned again to, his six-months-old magazine. Could he have followed Moncrossen and overheard the hurried conversation which took place in the little office, he would have found food for further reflection, but of this he remained in ignorance; and, all unknown to him, a man left the office, slipped swiftly and noiselessly into the forest, and headed southward.