Some of us carefully removed Bar to the second house, whilst others chafed the bodies on the floor and poured warm drinks into their mouths to revive the spark of life, if it yet lingered. But they were frozen to death. The log-cabin in which my companions and I had lived for three months was now the lumberman’s dead-house. There the four bodies were to rest until they could be moved to their graves. The next morning Guyon Vidocq’s body was laid beside those of his companions. He had been found stretched dead on the riverbank.
Such was our Christmas.
It appeared that when John Bar had gone to his cabin he found four of the inmates lying drunk on the floor, the fires expiring, and Guyon Vidocq in a delirium of intoxication pulling everything to pieces—table, benches, etcetera—to pile them in the corner, and, then, as he said, light a real Christmas bonfire. John Bar immediately saw the danger that the poor creatures on the floor were in, and whilst he tried to get fires going in the stove and chimney-place as quickly as possible, he also exerted his influence to soothe Guyon Vidocq and make him cease his crazy work. But the presence of Bar seemed to madden Vidocq immediately. From the time the former entered the house, Vidocq cursed him with every vile oath his drunken lips could frame, and, when Bar attempted remonstrance and command, the infuriated maniac suddenly caught up a table knife, and plunged it in his opponent’s side. Then with a yell Vidocq rushed from the house, leaving the door thrown back for the deadly cold to enter and complete his work. John Bar said that he fell when the knife struck him; that he had strength to crawl to a pile of furs and blankets; that he even tried to cover his companions, but could not; that he called for help as long as he had voice; and that, when I entered, an hour after the assault, he had lost all consciousness. The bleeding had ceased, but the sleep of the frozen was falling on him.
Those events of Christmas Day broke up the lumber-camp.
John Bar was not dangerously wounded, and when we were able to carry him on a sled to the nearest settlement he quickly recovered.
“And now, boys, you have had your stories, so let’s off to bed. Captain Mugford, Ugly has gone to sleep over mine. He prefers sea narratives.”
But Ugly heard his name, and broke off in the middle of a snore to come and put his paws apologetically on Mr Clare’s knee.
The sail Harry and I had watched disappeared behind the point of rocks soon after Mr Clare commenced his story, and while waiting anxiously for her reappearance we listened with much interest to Mr Clare; and as he was finishing she came out again and stood to the south-west. Determined to investigate the mystery ourselves, we said nothing to the others. By the time we reached the deck to take our way homeward the little sail was hardly distinguishable. As no one noticed it, Harry and I went to bed, partners in a secret full of romance to us.