“What’s the matter?” she asked, striving to keep her teeth from chattering.
“Dog bite her,” the older girl spoke in a slow, deep tone. “White man dog. Strange white man dog. Come steamboat this day.”
“Yes,” Florence moved closer. “We all came by steamboat. There are many dogs. Too many! Let me see.”
The small child thrust a trembling hand from a greasy blanket.
“Ah!” Florence breathed. “That’s rather bad. Not very deep, but dog bites are bad. It must be dressed. I’ll be back.”
Stepping quickly to the tent she poured warm water from a thermos bottle into a basin, snatched up a first-aid kit, then hurried back.
“Here you are,” she said cheerily. “First we wash it. Then we dry it. Then—this will hurt a little, quite a bit, I guess.” She produced a bottle of iodine. “You tell her. Tell her it will hurt.” She spoke to the older girl, who said some words in her own language to the attentive child. When she had finished, Florence received her first reward—nor was it to be the last—for this bit of personal sacrifice, the child fixed upon her a look that registered perfect faith and confidence.
Florence applied the severe remedy. Then she watched the child’s face. A single tear crept from the corner of her eye and ran down her cheek.
It hurt, that iodine, hurt terribly for the moment. Florence knew that. Yet not a muscle of the child’s face moved.
“This,” Florence thought, with a little tightening at the throat, “is the spirit of the North. It is with this spirit that we all must face the trials and dangers that lie before us in this world. If we do this, we shall be real pioneers and we shall win.