“No. You’re not right either. I’ll give you one more chance.”
“Look here,” Sandy growled impatiently. “Enough of this. You’re not a child any more. Who is it?”
“The man who owns the boots.”
“The Indian owns the boots,” exclaimed Sandy triumphantly. “I guessed right after all.”
“No, you didn’t. The Indian don’t own the boots. He stole them.”
“Pshaw! I know now,” sudden light dawned upon the young Scotchman. “It’s—it’s a mounted policeman.”
“You’re right. Corporal Rand.”
Breathlessly, Sandy leaned forward over the sledge. A parka concealed the sleeper’s face. Blankets, many thick folds, enwrapped him. None of the features was visible. Yet Sandy had seen enough to convince him that this man was not Rand.
“I don’t see why you should try to deceive me, Dick,” remonstrated Sandy. “That isn’t the corporal at all. Too thin. Don’t attempt to fool me.”
“It is the corporal,” insisted Dick. “But he’s changed a lot. I met him face to face, and at first didn’t even recognize him. He must have had a terrible time. He was picked up two days ago by an Indian hunter, where he’d fallen in the snow. His feet were badly frozen.”