Tom read it three times, very slowly. The full meaning of it struck him suddenly, and he trembled. The wide sheet shook between his hands, fluttered clear and swooped to the floor. Mick Otter picked it up and stared at it like an owl.
“I see the mark of your finger in that,” said Tom to the doctor.
“And of the fingers of every other old soldier in Canada,” returned the doctor.
“When may I show it to Catherine?” asked Tom.
“To-morrow, I think. I am counting on that bit of news to save me a lot of medicine and professional effort.”
Six days later, very early in the morning, Tom Akerley and Dr. Smith flew away from Gaspard’s clearings—but not northward across the height-of-land toward Timbertown. They carried the Winter’s catch of furs with them, which included several exceptionally fine pelts of otter and mink and a few of “patch” fox. Tom wore the same clothes, ribbons and all, in which he had landed so violently amid the young oats on that June night, now almost a full year ago.
They passed high over Boiling Pot and made a landing in a meadow on the outskirts of a small town. There they attracted a good deal of attention; so they took flight again as soon as the doctor had dispatched a telegram to Timbertown and procured petrol and a map.
Their second and last landing was made in the Agricultural Exhibition Park of a city. Leaving the machine in the charge of a policeman, and taking the package of pelts with them, they went to the nearest hotel. From the hotel Tom rang up Militia Headquarters and the doctor rang up a dependable dealer in furs.
An hour later, Tom gave his name to an orderly. The orderly was back in fifteen seconds.
“The general will see you now, sir,” he said. “This way, if you please.”