She protested; but he went ahead gently but firmly, removed her snowshoes from her feet and hung them on her shoulder and then crouched and hoisted and jolted her into that ancient and practical position for carrying known as pig-a-back. Doubtless it is more romantic to carry a lady in distress in your arms, and more dignified to pull her along on a sled, and even trundling her in a wheelbarrow (wind and weather permitting) may seem a more conventional way to some people—but every woodsman and soldier knows that pig-a-back is the style when a job of this sort has to be done for its own sake. Take the weight, be it dead-weight or live-weight, on and above the shoulders. Keep under it. Don’t let it get behind you, dragging your shoulders down and back and throwing your feet up and forward. This was old stuff to Vane—yes, and to the girl; so he hitched her as high as he could without the loss of a steadying back-handed hold on her, stooped forward slightly and went ahead at a fair pace.
He didn’t talk; and evidently the young woman had nothing to say. After a silent mile he halted, and let his load slide gently to the snow at his heels. They rested side by side. He lit a cigarette.
“It’s easy,” he said. “We’ll make it handily.”
“You are very strong,” she said. “And the stronger a man is, the kinder he should be. You are strong enough, and you should be kind enough, to let kindness overrule your pride.”
“Pride? I don’t know what you mean by that, upon my word!”
“You are not proud?”
“Certainly not. What of?”
“I’m glad. Then you’ll go away to-morrow, back to New York.”
“But I explained all that!”
“Nothing is keeping you here but your silly pride. You are too proud to allow people like the Danglers, or a little thing like a threat of death, to change your plans.”