Peter nodded. "But I don't want to," he said. "I want to go with you, dad."
"You must go to Five Fingers, Peter. I'll come back soon. I promise that. I'll come back—soon."
A gulp came in Peter's throat.
"I'm not tired. I can go a long ways yet, dad. I'd rather go with you."
The man drew him into his arms.
"I'll come back tomorrow," he lied, fighting to speak the words calmly. "And you must get the paper in the bottle to Simon McQuarrie as soon as you can. You aren't afraid to go alone, are you, Peter?"
"No, I'm not afraid."
"Then—you must go." He hugged him close for a moment, and rested his cheek on Peter's disheveled hair. "Maybe I'll come back tonight," he whispered desperately. "Good-by, little pal. Hurry—and give Simon the paper—and—good-by!"
His lips burned against Peter's forehead. It was that kiss which startled Peter, and when his father turned away, and then looked back, smiling and waving a hand, a suffocating feeling remained in Peter's heart as if he could not get all the air he wanted to breathe. He tried to wave his hand in response, but in a moment it fell limply to his side. Donald McRae saw the gesture and a sob came in his breath. He disappeared behind a windfall, stopped and looked back. Peter was slowly turning toward Five Fingers. The small figure was pathetic in its aloneness. Twice it paused and turned, and then went on, and was hidden at last by a screen of evergreens.