"It ain't myself I was thinkin' about. It's the lass. She's had four
pretty hard days on the trail, an' she'd be the better for a
comfortable bunk."
"The lass!" exclaimed Murchison.
"Jean! Here!" Strong fingers gripped McNabb's arm, and he stared in
astonishment into the face of Sven Larsen. The loose-lipped, vapid
expression was gone, and the blue-gray eyes stared into his own with
burning intensity.
"You don't mean----? Why, Oskar lad!"
"Sh--sh. But she mustn't know! Promise me--both of you! She will be
going to bed early, and after supper I'll see you at the landing."
McNabb studied the face quizzically. "Ye fooled me, all right, but I'm
doubtin' ye can fool Jean."
"At least, I can try," answered the clerk. "I'll see you at supper,"
and without waiting for a reply, he ascended the ladder that led to the
fur loft.
"Where is the lass? Fetch her in, John." Murchison's eyes twinkled as
he stepped closer. "He thinks he's lost her," he whispered. "But tell
me, John, d'ye think the lass cares for this damned Wentworth?"
"Who can say?" grinned McNabb. "'Twill not be long now till we can see
for ourselves," and stepping to the door he called Jean, who was trying
to make friends with a group of Indian children.
"She'll have my room," said Murchison, as he followed McNabb to the
door. "An' no bunk, either, but a brass bed that I bought in Winnipeg
out of respect for my old bones an' the weakening flesh that covers
'em. You an' me will pitch a tent, an' 'twill be the first time in
many years, John, we've slept under canvas together."
The next moment he was welcoming the girl with a deference he would
have scarce accorded to royalty.