“Yes,” said Dick miserably. “Eleven o’clock. But they may come, Sandy.”
The suspense was difficult to endure. In the last half hour, Sandy’s watch had been jerked from his pocket no less than seven times. The three boys sat in their billet and marked the slow passing of time. All through the morning they had experienced a nervous tension, which was becoming rapidly more and more acute. Toma paced up and down the floor, paying little heed to what his two chums said. Occasionally, he looked out through one of the frosted windows, straining his ears for the shout that would announce the safe return of the two captives.
In his heart, Toma half-believed that Dick’s plan would work. He knew the awe and reverence in which the mounted police were held. If Dr. Brady and Father Bleriot were not sent back, it would be because the Indians had come to the conclusion that Dick’s statement regarding Corporal Rand was merely a bluff.
Sandy’s watch ticked off the seconds. Dick stepped forward to stir up the fire. There came a timid knock at the door.
It was Father Michaud. He shuffled through the doorway, his robes rustling about him, his thin bare hands rubbing each other to restore their sluggish circulation.
“Ah, monsieurs,” he broke forth, “I have slept but ill. Et ees most difficult theese slow waiting. Do you not think, monsieurs? All night I worry veree much. Zen I pray, monsieurs. Et ees a great help.”
Sandy pulled forward a chair for their unhappy visitor.
“Sit-down, father. Take a place here close to the fire.”
“Merci. You are kind, monsieur.”
He half-turned in his chair.