“What was it Fred said last night about remorse and midges? Confound it, I forget. Blank the things! Get a smudge, Steve,—two smudges!” And he retired again to the tent and his novel.
He had been drowsily considering the fates of a despairing young woman for a half-hour or more, when he was aware of an unfamiliar voice outside of the tent. Steve, the guide, an honest, good-tempered Gaspé man, was heard to say:
“Mr. Carington—he went away a bit back. I didn’t see him, sir. I was getting cedar bark for smudges.”
“Where did he go?”
“Michelle, where is Mr. Carington? Where did he go?”
‘The bowman,[‘The bowman,] fully prepared, replied at once:
“I don’t rightly know.”
At this Mr. Ellett bounded from his mattress, and appeared without. The voice he heard first was unmistakably that of a man of his own world.
“Beg pardon,” he said; “I was dozing. I am Mr. Oliver Ellett. Won’t you come in?”
“No, thank you. I have but a few minutes. I am Mr. Lyndsay, from the Cliff Camp. I came to see Mr. Carington. Is he here?”