It came to him that it was his duty to hunt out the Red Racer and break the sad news.
“But what would be the good? One does not fall thousands of feet and survive. My first duty is to the living.”
He flew into Resolution, drank a scalding cup of black tea, took on his emergency passenger, and then flew straight back to Fort McMurray. There Punch Dickinson, who had come to relieve him, took over his task and he was free.
“Free to think!” he told himself bitterly.
And such thoughts as they were! He lived over again trying days in a great city when Drew Lane had played the part of a true friend to him, saw again his quiet smile, seemed to hear his voice. And then, as he closed his eyes he saw a thing like a white sheet flutter from the clouds to go drifting away on an all but endless journey, and heard once again the thunder of motors.
For a long time he tossed aimlessly about in his bed. Then a great resolve to control his mind won for him rest.
Morning found him with the time and the great desire to follow the “Gray Streak” to the bleakest shore of the Arctic, if need be.
He called the office and obtained permission to use his plane in this pursuit for three days.
“At the end of that time you must report for duty at McMurray,” came over the wire. “Take no chances that will cause you to break this trust.”
He gave his word; then, with Jerry at his side, he flew away into the morning.