“Yes, Dick, I give you my word of honour.”
“I thought you would!” Dick Bracknell laughed shortly as he spoke, and then turned to his Indian companion. “Just take your knife, Joe, and cut those thongs.”
The Indian turned from the stove and growled something in a dialect which the corporal did not understand. He guessed, however, that the Indian was demurring, and with mingled feelings waited to see what would happen. His cousin spoke again, and this time there was a peremptory note in his voice.
“Cut those thongs, I tell you; and don’t stand there growling at things you don’t understand.”
He added something in his native tongue, and watching the Indian’s scowling face, the corporal saw the frown lift, and a flicker of evil laughter leap into the single eye. A moment later the Indian stepped up to him, and with a hunting knife cut the hide thongs which bound him, and then returned to the stove.
The corporal stretched his arms, then his whole body, and after that rose slowly to his feet. His cousin watched him with eyes that smiled inscrutably.
“Feels better, hey? You’re a sensible man, Cousin Roger, and now I guess we shall get along famously. A pity, though, that I shan’t be able to sit down to breakfast with you.”
“What I can’t understand is how you come to be here at all,” blurted the corporal.
“Oh,” laughed the other, “that’s as simple as you please. When I was plugged down by North Star, I must have lapsed into unconsciousness—for the first time on any stage. Whilst I was lying there in the snow—”