“What’s your name, boy?” he shouted.
“My name? Paul.”
“And the woman—your mother?”
“No—yes—my stepmother.”
“And dying? Where? Show me!” The missionary dragged him to a map hanging on the wall. The boy shook his head.
“Give me paper,” he said.
The missionary thrust paper and pencil into his hands. With shaking fingers he drew a rough outline of the lake, and traced a trail along the east shore.
“There!” he said, indicating a jutting point. “Twenty miles—one hour after midnight—I left.”
“Twenty miles! God help us now!” muttered the missionary, making swift preparations. “Quick, Mother! Tea, hot bricks, blankets, grub, whiskey. Ah! Thomas, good man—” he turned to an Indian who had come in—“party lost up the lake, twenty miles. Get ready to go with me. Another team—the Factor’s. Quick! quick!” Without a word the Indian vanished.
The missionary turned to the boy. “Now, lad, you go to bed. Mother will look after you.” He turned to his wife, busy with the preparation of food. “Feed him, Mother, and let him sleep. I know that point. We will bring them in safe enough.”