Over the simple dinner, which Pinney praised for the delicacy of the
local lamb, and Northwick ate of so sparingly, Northwick talked more
freely. He told Pinney all about his flight, and his winter journey up
toward the northern verge of the civilized world. The picturesque
details of this narrative, and their capability of distribution under
attractive catch-heads almost maddened the reporter's soul in Pinney
with longing to make newspaper material of Northwick on the spot. But he
took his honor in both hands, and held fast to it; only he promised him
that if the time ever came when that story could be told, it should be
both fortune and fame to him.
They sat long over their dinner. At last Pinney pulled out his watch.
"What time did you say the boat for Quebec got along here?"
Northwick had not said, of course, but he now told Pinney. He knew the
time well in the homesickness which mounted to a paroxysm as that hour
each day came and went.
"We must get there some time in the night then," said Pinney, still
looking at his watch. "Then let's understand each other about this: Am I
to tell your family where you are? Or what? Look here!" he broke off
suddenly, "why don't you come up to Quebec with me? You'll be just as
safe there as you are here; you know that; and now that your whereabouts
are bound to be known to your friends, you might as well be where they
can get at you by telegraph in case of emergency. Come! What do you
say?"