As Jalap’s companions noted his expression of dismay, they uttered shouts of mocking laughter, and asked what else he had expected when the Fort Adams Indians had mentioned that very name so plainly that a deaf man ought to have understood it.
In camp that night the sailor announced his intention of starting back down the river at daybreak, at which the others only exchanged significant glances, but said nothing. In the morning, after the sledges were loaded and the dogs harnessed, it was discovered that the driver of his sledge was missing. Telling him that he was thus rightly served for chastising the poor man, the others cracked their whips and started off up the river, leaving poor Jalap standing on its bank helpless and alone. [A few moments later], at the sound of a familiar whistle from the direction they had taken, [his dogs started after their vanished companions], carrying with them his entire outfit.
[A FEW MOMENTS LATER HIS DOGS STARTED AFTER THEIR VANISHED COMPANIONS]
With feet so badly used up from weeks of unaccustomed snow-shoeing that every step was torture, the deserted man at once realized the folly of pursuit, and with a heavy heart began to retrace his slow way to old Fort Adams. Reaching the mission completely exhausted, and unable to proceed farther, he had taken possession of the missionary’s house. Here, suffering, penniless, friendless, and almost hopeless, he was trying to form some plan for the future, when the door opened, and, as he afterwards quaintly said, “Ef the good little cherub what sets up aloft watching over poor Jack at sea had flowed in at that minute, I couldn’t been better pleased than I were to sight the blessed phiz of that precious young rascal, Phil Ryder.”
Such was the tale related by Jalap Coombs to Phil and Serge after the three had finished a dinner that included every luxury in the outfit of our young travellers, and between long, grateful pulls at “old comfort,” his pipe, which they had also provided with tobacco.
When the story was ended, Phil indignantly demanded to know the names of the two white men who claimed acquaintance with him and at the same time dared treat his old friend so shamefully.
“Simon Goldollar were the name of one.”
“I might have known it—the sneak!” broke in Phil.
“And the other are called Strengel.”