Tomlinson, one foot on the sleigh, looked at him under keen, shaggy brows. He glanced toward the station, with its wreathing, drifting lines of smoke. He shook his head. “I’m going home,” he said. He threw the halter into the sleigh and knocked the snow from his boots against the side.
John watched him silently, as he climbed in and gathered up the reins in big,-mittened hands.
“We need you, Hugh,” he said slowly.
The old man nodded—impassive. “Can’t go,” he said.
“Why not!”
“She ’ll be waiting.” He pulled a little on the reins.
“Send some one home with the team—There’s Russell! Get him.”
The Scotchman glanced with indifferent eye at a man crossing the street. “I ’ve got my chores to do.” He pulled again on the reins.
The old horse lifted his head.
John laid a hand on the sleigh. “See here, Hugh. We need you—There’s no one else—He told me to get you.”