A desperate struggle freed him. His skis were broken, his muscles were bruised and twisted.
It was half-past three when he reached the outskirts of the town. Mounting the steps of the first house, he rained heavy blows upon the door. The owner stuck his head out of a window. “Who’s there?” he asked.
“Give me a cat!” Gus ordered in a rough voice.
“Are you crazy?” yelled the enraged man at the window.
“I’ve got to have a cat! I’m from the Little Bear! Cook’s little girl is sick—pneumonia! She’s goin’ to die if we don’t get her a cat!”
“From the Little Bear? Over the zigzags? Impossible!”
“Give me a cat or I’ll break your door in!”
Presently a light glimmered through the night and a hastily clad man joined Gus. A search of the neighborhood produced a cat and fresh skis. In half an hour Gus was on the trail back.
At the mine the men had not gone to their bunks that night. They huddled before the fireplace, awaiting the dreaded news. McGill slipped by now and then on some errand.
The night dragged through, and Christmas dawned.