“He’s going north, isn’t he?”
“Yes.”
“Toward Flaxman Island?”
“Probably. But what of that. What little food he and his companion, if he has one, will eat, won’t amount to anything.”
“No, it won’t; not if he stops at that. But as Curlie and I have said to you before, everything goes to indicate that he is sore at Munson; that he’d like to do him an injury. What greater injury could he do him than to load down his sled with supplies from Flaxman Island, then touch a match to the rest? Why, man, the whole thirty of them would starve just as Sir John Franklin’s hundred and fifty men did in that same region two or three generations ago!”
“Yes, if the outlaw’s that kind of a bird.”
“Who knows about that? The only way to find out is to go after him. I think it’s mighty important that we get him and get him quick.”
“Then we’ll have to leave Curlie to make the best of things, to shift for himself?”
“We-l-l,” said Joe, speaking very slowly, “I—I’m not sure what we should do. Let’s leave that discussion until morning.”
“Agreed,” said Jennings as he began unlacing his felt shoes, preparatory to creeping into his sleeping-bag.