“From midnight. But he could not make good time in his condition and against that storm, eh?”
Thomas stood calculating. “La Petite Traverse ten miles,” he said, holding up two hands. “La Grande Traverse, he—” he showed fifteen fingers “and some more. S’pose he run queeck, eh? No dreeft. De win’—she’s blow heem—poof!”
“The Big Traverse!” exclaimed the missionary. “That’s good eighteen miles! Still, as you say, there would be little drifting on the lake with this wind. He might do it. By Jove! Thomas, we have a big job before us. And that boy wants to come with us.”
“Non, non, he cannot! Impossible!” Thomas was very emphatic, the missionary’s wife equally so.
“Look at him, John! Did you ever see a boy so terribly worn?”
The missionary sat regarding the youth. “He is thin and worn. I am sorry I gave him my word, by Jove! Everything ready, Thomas? What have you, Mother? There is a sick woman, you know.”
“Starving and worn out, like enough,” replied his wife. “There’s a bottle of soup and tea and hard tack and meat.”
“Fine. We will give him a full half hour.”
“Perhaps when he wakes he can be persuaded to wait here,” said his wife.
“Not he! He is a mule, a perfect mule. Look at that mouth, that long jaw. He will try it anyway. We may have to put him on the toboggan, but he will go.”