CHAPTER VII.

_“THE PACKET” AT LAST._

On the morning of the day on which Kasba and David were lost in the blizzard, Roy Thursby stood on a high ridge of rocks at the back of the Fort, gazing through a telescope at a minute speck in the distance. Was it his imagination, or did the object move? He gazed eagerly at it until his sight became blurred, and he was forced to drop the glass and give his eyes a rest. However, after a few minutes spent in excitedly wiping the lens of the telescope, he again applied it to his eye. Yes, the object did move, but—was he sure? Again he gazed long and earnestly, his feelings undergoing curious changes as they wavered between certainty and doubt. Then the object of his attention suddenly made a slight detour which was unmistakable. Roy uttered a wild whoop, shut the telescope with a snap and went scrambling down the rocks with the enthusiasm of a delighted school-boy.

Long before he reached the Fort he fell to shouting, joyfully:

“Sahanderry! Sahanderry! Up with the flag!”

The kitchen door opened and Broom’s face appeared.

“Where’s the fire?” he enquired with a well-feigned look of terror.

“Fire be hanged! It’s the ‘packet,’” cried Roy exultantly, and in a lumbering fashion he cut a boyish caper on the loose snow.

Not to be outdone, Broom stepped from the doorway and began a grotesque performance which he called the Highland fling.

“Get out of it,” cried Roy, giving him a push.

Broom paused with a leg poised gracefully in the air. “You’re an unappreciative, cold-blooded Englishman,” he exclaimed in an injured tone. “Why, I’m thinking of you, not of myself. I’m dancing with delight, my boy, sheer delight. You’ll now be satiated with ‘billy doos,’” and he performed a few more intricate steps.

“Stop your nonsense, man!” commanded Roy, while he laughed heartily at the man’s antics. “But put on your coat and come out on the rocks.”

Broom instantly stopped his piroueting, to disappear into the house and return shortly, struggling into his coat as he came.

“Now, my bold Sir Launcelot, my lovesick swain, we will proceed to watch the approach of Cupid’s errant messenger.”

With this he attempted to link his arm in Roy’s, who promptly gave him a push which wellnigh precipitated him into an adjacent snowdrift.

Chatting merrily, the two men climbed the rocks till they arrived at the summit, where they stood gazing over the dazzling whiteness at the blot, which could easily be distinguished with the naked eye.

A number of dogs, scenting excitement, scampered about on top of the ridge of rocks, startling the _kas-i-ba_ (rock partridges), which flew up in flocks of great size. Near at hand Delgezie and Sahanderry scrambled up the eminence, while below Ocpic and Minnihak, accompanied by more dogs, were making prodigious efforts to join them. The flagstaff cut the sky-line sharply, and the flag, which had now been run up, fluttered merrily as if it, too, desired to welcome the weary “packet-men.”

Within half-an-hour of their undignified scramble up the rocks they were precipitating themselves down again to welcome the arrivals, who were now close at hand.

It was only by the persistent efforts of the dog-driver and his companion that the “packet” sled was drawn to the summit of the snowdrift in front of the Fort, for the dogs were completely worn out. They staggered along, making heroic attempts to appear to the best advantage before strangers, but appearances were against them.

“Well, George Hopkins,” said Roy, extending his hand, “I’m glad to see you.”

“And we’re right glad to get here, sir,” answered Hopkins, drily. “The trip’s been a hard one.”

“Yes, I suppose it has,” returned the trader with an approving glance at the plucky little half-breed who had accomplished the long, arduous journey. But Hopkins appeared to look on the trip as nothing exceptionally hazardous; it was just a part of the work that his contract with the Hudson’s Bay Company called for.

Hopkins’ Eskimo companion, Poo-koo, next received Roy’s attention, and just then Broom, who had been standing idly by, uttered a terrific yell as the dog-driver lifted the packet-box from under the sled wrapper. The package was a small and unimposing spectacle, covered with canvas; an insignificant object, indeed, to be carried such a number of miles at so great an expenditure of money and labor; but the importance of its contents and mission made up for its otherwise commonplace appearance, and such evidently was Hopkins’ opinion, for he handled the box carefully and with great respect for its “honorable enclosures.”

Roy turned sharply on his heel at the sailor’s shout, and, perceiving what Hopkins had in his hand, he walked forward to take charge of it with as much unconcern as his excited state permitted him to assume. He was feeling a little piqued at the noise Broom was making. It was, he felt, a continuance of the ridicule he had provoked that morning, and he resented Broom’s pertinacious buffoonery.

Broom was watching Roy with considerable curiosity, for the occasion suggested to him the possibility of a celebration. But the Englishman’s manner was disappointing. In common with most of his countrymen, he thought it a weakness to give unlimited sway to his finer emotions, and generally covered them with an appearance of coldness and reserve. He did so in this instance, and Broom’s hopes fell to zero. But the expected happened, for when Roy and Hopkins started for the house, the former suggested that George should “take a drink.”

The suggestion was received by George with unconcealed satisfaction, and Broom, who was following them closely, smiled in silent approbation of a proposal which was so entirely in accord with his own mind.

“It’s going to be a dirty day,” remarked Roy, glancing at the threatening clouds which hovered on the horizon.

“Yes, it’s going to blow from the north-west,” prophesied the dog-driver. “We’ve just got here in time.”

“Yes, you’re lucky. It will drift like the very dickens with all this loose snow about,” supplemented the trader, who now paused to look around; then, “But come,” he added, “let’s get indoors.”

With steps few and rapid the men soon reached the house. As they entered the door Sahanderry was observed standing with a steaming kettle in his hand. He spoke hurriedly to Hopkins, who hesitated a moment, then detained the trader with a respectful touch on the arm, and requested permission to postpone the whiskey-drinking till he had partaken of a few cups of tea.

“Tea!” ejaculated the surprised trader.

Broom was vastly amazed; that any man in the possession of his senses should prefer this homely beverage to the more exhilarating spirit was entirely beyond his comprehension.

“Yes,” observed George in respectful tones of apology, “I haven’t drunk tea for eight days.”

Roy’s face cleared. “Of course,” he said, “you’ve been without wood to boil the kettle. Where did you get the last cup of tea?”

“At Cape Eskimo,” replied the other, mentioning a point some two hundred miles south of Fort Future.

“And you haven’t tasted tea since; poor devil!” Roy now exhorted Sahanderry to at once supply the packet man with what he desired.

But the Indian had a comprehensive knowledge of “tripping,” and had already brewed a kettle of tea. He now offered Hopkins a large mugful.

“Why, that’s capital, Sahanderry,” cried Roy, and he bade George seat himself and eat and drink to his heart’s content. “You’ve earned it,” he declared. “You can come to me later for the whiskey.”

With the “packet” under his arm Roy entered his _sanctum sanctorum_, closely followed by Broom, whose face displayed the resentment he was feeling at what he considered Hopkins’ idiosyncrasy in preferring tea to whiskey. He considered Hopkins had thrown away a glorious opportunity, and expressed his irritation in sullen looks and dissatisfied demeanor. “Of all the lunatics,” he murmured to himself, glaring back at the unconscious cause of his anger.

The trader opened the “packet” without any unseemly haste, for he felt the other’s eyes upon him. There were a goodly number of letters and newspapers. These he commenced to sort, but, feeling that Broom was watching his every movement, he suddenly stopped, caught up a handful of newspapers at random and handed them to his too watchful companion.

Broom took the newspapers awkwardly and murmured something, presumably his thanks.

Again Roy turned to his correspondence. He hummed an Eskimo Crane song as he separated the letters from the papers.

“_Oo-ee-yah, Oo-ee-yah-ah; Moo-nick-koo-li, Shah-pa-ah;_ _Moo-nick-loon-ee, Nip-yaik-tal-ee,_ _Cle-uk! Cle-uk! Cle-uk!_”

(“Oh husband, oh husband, come dance with me; Dance fast, and sing aloud, Hurrah! Hurrah! Hurrah!”)

which song, the natives solemnly aver, is sung by those birds on all occasions of festivity, the birds sitting round in a ring with one bird, presumably the leader, standing in the centre.

Roy hummed it over several times before completing his task. A small, square package of cardboard containing a photograph seemed to cause him much hesitation, and he paused to lay it beside the letters, then again to take it up and lay it on the newspapers, but eventually he gave it a place of honor by itself, apart from the rest of the mail.

By the time the last letter was sorted the heap had grown to a respectable size. This fact Roy comprehended with manifest satisfaction.

The letters were addressed to him in several different hands, but the greater number were in the hand-writing of one person—evidently that of a lady. After these letters had been separated from the others he arranged them according to a mystic sign, or number, which was visible in the left hand corner of each envelope, then suddenly, without any apparent cause, he dropped them on the table to snatch up the cardboard package. Cutting the string that bound it together, he discovered a photograph of a young girl, or rather, young woman, for it was the picture of a person about twenty years of age.

The photograph was of the size known as a “cabinet.” The lady’s costume, what could be perceived of it, was shadowy and indistinct. The features were those of a young, healthy-looking maiden neither beautiful nor even pretty, but the expression of the girl’s face was pleasant, and the eyes which looked fearlessly out from it were large and good. The figure as far as could be judged from the photograph was short, and, to use a vulgar expression which aptly describes it, stocky.

Roy held the photo tenderly, gazing rapturously at the face pictured there. Presently he withdrew his eyes and glanced cautiously across at his companion.

Broom’s face was hidden by the newspaper, in the reading of which he was apparently absorbed. Taking advantage of the other’s abstraction, Roy hastily pressed the photograph to his lips.

A crisp, crackling sound peculiar to paper brought a blush to Roy’s cheek, and with guilty haste he laid the cardboard on the table, then he looked up with what nonchalance he could muster. His companion’s attention was still absorbed in his reading, and Roy concluded with a feeling of relief that his late proceedings had passed unobserved. For although the act of kissing a photograph was in no way a grave offence, yet it was not an act he cared to commit before witnesses.

But Roy was wrong in his conjectures. By a skilful manipulation of the newspaper, Broom had seen Roy’s every act, and now sat behind the paper with a supercilious smile upon his face.

Opening the first letter, Roy scanned it eagerly. “Well, my dear boy,” it ran, “you will be pleased to hear that Papa has at last received his commission as Inspecting Chief Factor. The letter that he received from the directors in London acquainting him with the appointment was eulogistic in the extreme. The following extracts will give you some idea of the nice things they said:

“It is a satisfaction to know that you are still in the sphere of activity. . . . We all feel that in you we shall have an Inspecting Chief Factor who will exercise his influence to instil new life into the Company which needs just now a master mind to resuscitate—to some extent, at least—its ancient prestige . . . That you will set yourself to work to inaugurate changes which are much needed . . .”

“There, now, what do you think of that? And dare you aspire to the daughter of such a man? But I have kept my greatest bit of news until the last. Papa is so elated with his new commission, and determined to inaugurate the changes spoken of in the letter, that he has decided to make a long trip of inspection during the coming summer, and, prepare to be astonished, ‘Fort Future’ is to be visited. Think of that, my boy, and tremble.”

Roy read this letter through twice before laying it down to take up another, which was written in a different key.

“A terrible calamity has happened here. Young Mr. College got into a quarrel with a native and shot him dead. Papa declares that he was quite justified, as it was in self-defence, but I think it was horrible. I shall never look on the young fellow without a shudder. It would be impossible for me to take his hand; in my imagination it is covered with blood. _For in my opinion it is murder for a man to take another man’s life, no matter what the circumstances that seem to extenuate it._”

For perhaps five minutes Roy pondered over this letter and when he laid it down it was with a very solemn face. The words stirred him strangely, and he sat absent-mindedly fingering the next letter for some moments before cutting the envelope, but when he did so and his eye caught the opening lines, he started erect in his seat and a slight exclamation of surprise escaped him. Broom glanced at him inquiringly, but Roy was absorbed in his occupation and quite oblivious of Broom’s presence.

“My dear boy,” the letter ran, “you must not be frightened when I tell you that I have been ill. Not seriously ill, dear, but what we Canadians call ‘under the weather,’ and papa, after eager solicitations from myself, has promised to allow me to accompany him on his visit to Fort Future. Is not that most beautiful? I am sure I shall never get another good night’s sleep till the time comes for us to start. It is three years since we saw each other. I wonder if I shall find you changed in appearance? If you will think that I have grown old-looking or ugly? . . . You may rest assured that, if I am alive and well, at the earliest possible chance after open navigation you will have the life plagued out of you by

Your ever loving

LENA.”

* * * * *

This being the last letter necessary to the construction of our romance, we will leave Roy Thursby to his letters while I digress in my story to say something about the writer of the billet doux.

The first few years of Roy Thursby’s employment in the Hudson’s Bay Company’s service were spent in the Mackenzie River District. The officer in charge of the Fort at which Roy was stationed was Factor James McLeod, a widower with one child, Lena—Roy’s fair correspondent. After a short time spent in the constant society of the Factor’s daughter the young clerk became enamored of her and she in return favored his aspirations. Perceiving the upright character of the young fellow and the zeal he displayed in the Company’s service—which augured well for his future success—Mr. McLeod consented to their being engaged, but stipulated that Roy should be in the possession of his Chief Trader’s commission before they entertained any thoughts of marriage. Then Roy had been transferred to York Factory, and from there to Fort Future, as we have seen.