Walking in from Deer River of a still, cold afternoon–with the sun low and the frost crackling under foot and all round about–we encountered a strapping young fellow bound out to town afoot.
“Look here, boy!” said Higgins; “where you going?”
“Deer River, sir.”
“What for?”
There was some reply to this. It was a childish evasion; the boy had no honest business out of camp, with the weather good and the work pressing, and he knew that Higgins understood. Meanwhile, he kicked at the snow, with a sheepish grin, and would not look the Pilot in the eye.
“You’re from Three, aren’t you?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I thought I saw you there in the fall,” said the Pilot. “Well, boy,” he continued, putting a strong hand on the other’s shoulder, “look me in the eye.”
The boy looked up.
“God help you!” said the Pilot, from his heart; “nobody else ’ll give you a show in Deer River.”