"Hello, Billy," said Phil. "Do you know that you've been away from home a long time? Your father was beginning to fear that you'd never come back."
The boy smiled, and, despite the Indian paint on his face, Phil saw there the blue eyes and features of Arenberg. He guessed, too, that the black hair under the cap would become gold as soon as the paint wore off.
"I not know at first," said Billy, speaking slowly and hesitatingly, as if it were difficult for him to remember the English language, "but the song when I hear it one, two, three times, then it come back and I answered. I knew my father, too, when he picked me up."
Arenberg gave him a squeeze, then he produced from his pocket some jerked venison, which Billy ate eagerly.
"He's strong and hearty, that's evident," said Phil. "And, since we cannot leave any trail while the snow is pouring down in this way, I suggest that we let our horses rest for awhile, and then ride as straight as we can for The Silver Cup."
"It iss well," said Arenberg. "Nothing but one chance in a thousand could bring them upon us now, and God iss so good that I do not think He will let that chance happen."
Arenberg spoke very quietly, but Phil saw that the words came from his heart. The boy still preserved the singular stillness which he seemed to have learned from the Indians, but he held firmly to his father. Now and then he looked curiously at Phil. Phil chucked him under the chin and said:
"Quite a snow, isn't it, Billy?"
"I'm not afraid of snow," rejoined the boy, in a tone that seemed to defy any kind of a storm.
"Good thing," said Phil, "but this is a fine snow, a particularly fine snow. It has probably saved us all."