“Yes, yes,” said Dick. “What’s he done now?”
“He tell ’em me to give you this,” answered Toma, placing something in Dick’s hand.
A small, flat object of some flexible material, which felt like leather. Dick fumbled in his pockets for a match and struck it. The sudden tiny glare revealed nothing more than a piece of birch bark, blank on one side, a pencilled scrawl on the other. Presently, with the help of another match, he made out two words wholly unintelligible: “god by.”
“God by,” asked Dick perplexedly. “What does that mean?”
“It means,” answered the quick-witted Sandy in a voice that was unusually calm, “that Lamont has left us. Can’t you see? Gone!”
“But this thing—these words, I mean—what——”
“He couldn’t spell. It’s ‘good-bye.’ He’s gone, I tell you.”
Bewildered, weary, disheartened, Dick stared miserably out into the enveloping darkness.
CHAPTER XI
PHANTOMS OF THE STORM
Long before the camp was astir on the following morning, Dick rose shivering, dressed, and made his way to Dr. Brady’s tent. Lamont’s departure had completely upset him. He could think of nothing else. Through the long night he had lain awake thinking unpleasant thoughts, upbraiding himself for his lack of diplomacy and negligence. To a certain extent he and he alone was responsible for the calamity. He had asked Lamont to leave the party and the guide had gone. Now he bitterly regretted the incident. He had been a fool—rash, hasty, unthinking. He had jeopardized the lives, not only of his own party, but, worse still, the lives of scores of others residing in the districts affected by the plague.