Jerry snorted and opened his eyes, heavy-lidded with sleep. “Whazza matter?” he mumbled.
Sandy grinned. “Looks like Santa was here while we were asleep. C’mon, get up.”
Sandy rolled out of his sleeping bag, put on his trousers, shirt and boots and went over to the tree. Kneeling down, he read the tags on the packages: “‘To Sandy from Dad,’ ‘To Jerry....’ Hey! There’s something here for everybody.”
He looked up and saw his father, Professor Crowell and Lou Mayer standing in the doorway that led into the tiny kitchen. They were all smiling broadly.
“Well, don’t just sit there,” Dr. Steele said. “Pass them around.”
As Sandy had observed, there was something for everyone. An intricate chronometer wrist watch that told the days of the month and even the phases of the moon for Sandy; a candid camera for Jerry; a gold fountain pen for Lou Mayer; and a fine steel hunting knife with a silver inlaid handle for Tagish Charley. Professor Crowell, with genuine Yuletide spirit, gave a set of ivory chessmen he had bought from an Indian at Fort Nelson to the three weathermen. They, in turn, presented the professor and Dr. Steele each with a pair of fine snowshoes.
After they had burned the wrappings in the fire, Sandy remarked rather sadly, “Gee, Dad, now I wish I hadn’t left your present back home. But Mom said we’d save all the gifts till we got back.”
Dr. Steele put his arm around his son’s shoulders. “Sandy, the best present you could ever give me is just being here.” He reached for Jerry with his other arm. “That goes for you too, Jerry.”
Right after breakfast, they said goodbye to their new friends and headed north again. They drove into Watson Lake, just across the border in Yukon territory, about two o’clock. Watson Lake was one of the largest towns along the Alaska Highway. In addition to a Mountie station and an R.C.A.F. base, there was an airstrip for commercial airlines and accommodations for putting up passengers overnight. They drove straight out to the air force base, where the sentry ushered them through the gate with a snappy salute as soon as Professor Crowell identified himself.
“The old prof really rates in these parts, doesn’t he?” Jerry mused, as they drove through the precisely laid-out checkerboard streets past neat log-cabin barracks to the HQ building.