The sufferer smiled and wrote on his pad:

"My name is Watson Balfour."



"Of London?" queried Cabot.

The man nodded.

"Is it possible that you can be Watson Balfour, the celebrated English electrician, who is supposed to have been lost at sea some years ago?"

Again the man smiled and made a sign of assent.

For a moment Cabot stared, well nigh speechless with the wonder and excitement of this discovery. Then he broke into a torrent of exclamations and questions.

"Why, Mr. Balfour, I know you so well by reputation that you seem like an old friend. Your 'Handbook of Electricity' and your 'Comparative Voltage' are text books at the Institute. The whole scientific world mourned your supposed death. But how do you happen to be up here, and how have you managed to establish an electric plant in this wilderness? Why are you masquerading as a man-wolf? How did you lose the power of speech? How did you become so severely wounded? Can't you tell me some of these things?"

For answer Mr. Balfour wrote: "Perhaps, some time. Tell first how you came here."

So Cabot, forced to curb for the present his own overpowering curiosity, sat down and told of all that had happened since the departure of the man-wolf from Locked Harbour. When he had finished he said:

"And now, I ought to go outside and see if I can discover any trace of my companions, who must be awfully cut up over my disappearance. But don't be uneasy, Mr. Balfour, I shan't go far, and whether I find them or not I shall certainly come back to stay just as long as you need me. I hope you will sleep while I am gone, and I wish you would promise not to leave your bed, or move more than is absolutely necessary, before my return."

When Cabot first stepped outside the shelter that had proved such a haven of safety to him, he was dazzled by the brilliancy of the day. After becoming somewhat accustomed to the glare of sunlight on new-fallen snow, he turned to see what sort of a house he had just left. To his surprise there was no house; the only suggestion of one being two windows and a door set in a wall of rock that was built at the base of a cliff.

"It is a cavern," thought Cabot, "and that is the reason the room is so easily kept warm. Mighty good thing to have in this country, especially when it is lined with furs."

The snow lay unbroken, and there was no sign of the trail he had made the night before. For a short distance, however, he could go in but one direction, for the only way out was through the narrow defile by which he had entered. At its mouth he found the wire over which he had fallen, and thereby given notice of his approach by causing the ringing of an electric bell.

"When he heard it he turned on the lights," said Cabot to himself. "It's a great scheme for scaring off Indians and attracting white men. I wonder if any other person ever found the place? What a marvellous thing my stumbling on it was, anyhow. Now, which way did I come?"

Gazing blankly at the surrounding chaos of snow-covered rocks, our lad could form no idea of the route by which he had been led to that place, through the storm and darkness of the preceding night, nor of how he might leave it.

"There is no use wandering aimlessly," he decided at length, "and I'll either have to gain a bird's-eye view of the country or get Mr. Balfour to make me a map. To think that I should have discovered him, and here of all places in the world. What a sensation it will make when I tell of it. Of course I shall do so, for I'll get out of this fix all right somehow. What a state of mind poor White must be in this morning. I know I should be in his place. He's all right, though, with Yim to pull him through, and they'll make Indian Harbour easy enough. Then I shall be reported lost, and after a while Mr. Hepburn will hear the news. Wonder what he thinks has become of me anyhow? I am following out instructions, and wintering in Labrador fast enough. Only I don't seem to have much time to investigate mining properties, and of course it's no use trying to find 'em buried under feet of snow. Perhaps Mr. Balfour has discovered some while roaming around the country as a man-wolf. How absurd to think of 'Voltage' Balfour as a man-wolf! Wonder why he did it? How I wish he could talk! Wonder why he can't?"

While thus cogitating, Cabot had also been climbing a nearby eminence that promised a view of the outlying country, but from it he could see nothing save other hills rising still higher and an unbroken waste of snow.

"It's no use," he sighed. "I don't believe I could find them, even if I had plenty of time. As it is, I don't dare stay away from Mr. Balfour any longer. I'm afraid he's a very sick man, with a slim chance of ever pulling through."

So Cabot, after an absence of several hours, turned back towards the snug shelter so providentially provided for him, and for which he was just then more grateful than he could express. He was thinking of the many wonders of the place when he reached its door; but, as he opened it and stepped inside the room, he was greeted by a greater surprise than he had yet encountered. Nothing was changed about the interior, and the wounded man lay as Cabot had left him, but with the appearance of the latter he exclaimed:

"Thank God, dear lad, that you have come back to me! It seemed as though I should go crazy if left alone a minute longer."

Cabot stared in amazement. "Is it a miracle?" he finally asked, "and has your speech been restored to you, or have you been able to speak all the time?"

"I have been able, but not willing," was the reply. "I had thought to die without speaking to a human being. I even avoided my fellows, believing myself sufficient unto myself. But God has punished my arrogance and shown me my weakness. Until you came no stranger has ever set foot within this dwelling, to none have I spoken, and not even to you did I intend to speak, but with your going my folly became plain. I feared you might never return; the horror of living alone, and the greater horror of dying alone, swept over me. Then I prayed for you to come. I promised to speak as soon as you were within hearing. Every moment since then I have watched for you and longed for your coming as a dying man longs for the breath of life. Promise that you will not leave me again."

"I have already promised, and now I repeat, that I will not leave you so long as you have need of me," replied Cabot. "But tell me——"

"I will tell you everything," interrupted the wounded man, "but first you must look after the dynamo. It has stopped, and if you cannot set it going again we must both perish."



CHAPTER XXVII.

THE MAN-WOLF'S STORY.

An accident to the dynamo in that place where there was no fuel, and electricity must be depended upon for light and heat, was so serious a matter that, for a moment, even Cabot's curiosity concerning his host was merged in anxiety.

"Where shall I find it?" he asked.

"In the cavern back of this room. The doorway is behind that bearskin. This upper row of keys connects with the storage battery, and the second key controls the lights of the dynamo room. If there is a bad break I can manage to get to it, but I wouldn't try until you came, because I promised not to move."

All this was said in a voice that faltered from weakness, and a wave of pity surged in Cabot's breast as he realised how dependent upon him this man, so recently a mental as well as a physical giant, had become.

"I expect I shall be able to attend to it all right," he said decisively, as he turned on the stored current that would light the unknown cavern. "At any rate, I shall be able to report the condition of things, so that you can advise me what to do, or else my training is a greater failure than I think."

With this he lifted the bearskin, opened a door thus disclosed, and found himself in a small, well-lighted cavern that was at once a dynamo room, a workshop, and a storehouse for a confused miscellany of articles. Without pausing to investigate any of these he went directly to a dynamo that had been set up at one side and examined it carefully. It appeared in perfect order, and the trouble must evidently be sought elsewhere.

Cabot had wondered by what power the dynamo was driven, and now, hearing a sound of running water, he stepped in that direction. A short distance away he discovered a swift-flowing subterranean stream, in which revolved a water wheel of rude, but serviceable, construction. As nothing seemed wrong with it, he was obliged to look further, and finally found the cause of trouble to be a transmitting belt, the worn-out lacing of which had parted. As portions of the belt itself had been caught in the pulleys and badly cut, it was necessary to hunt through the pile of material for a new one, and for leather suitable for lacing. Then the new belt must be accurately measured, laced together, and adjusted to its pulleys.

Although the temperature of the cavern was many degrees above that of the outside air, it was still so low that Cabot worked slowly and with numbed fingers. Thus more than an hour had elapsed before the dynamo was again in running order, and he was at liberty to return to the living room. In the meantime his curiosity concerning this strange place of abode and its mysterious tenant was increased by the remarkable collection of articles stored on all sides. There was no end of machinery, tools, and electrical apparatus of all kinds, including miles of copper wire and chemicals for charging batteries. Besides these, there were ropes, canvas, furniture, boxes, barrels, and other things too numerous to mention.

"What a prize this place would have been for the Indians if they had ever discovered it," reflected the young engineer. "I wonder that he dared go off and leave it unguarded."

When he finally returned to the outer room, he found it even colder than the cavern in which he had been working, and realised, as never before, the value of the knowledge that had enabled him to restore the usefulness of that electric heater. After getting it into operation, and making his report to the sick man, who had impatiently awaited him, there was another meal to prepare.

So, in spite of Cabot's overwhelming desire to hear Mr. Balfour's story, there was so much to be done first that the short day had merged into another night before the opportunity arrived. When it came, our lad drew a chair to the bedside of his patient and said:

"Now, sir, if you feel able to talk, and are willing to tell me how you happen to be living in this place, I shall be more than glad to listen."

"I am willing," replied the other, "but must be brief, since talking has become an exertion. As perhaps you know, I was a working electrician in London, where, though I had a good business, I had not accumulated much money. Consequently I was greatly pleased to receive what promised to be a lucrative contract from a Canadian railway company for supplying and installing a quantity of electrical apparatus along their line. I at once invested every penny I could raise in the purchase of material and in the charter of a sailing vessel to transport it to this country. On the eve of sailing I married a young lady to whom I had long been engaged, and, with light hearts, we set forth on our wedding trip across the Atlantic.

"The first two weeks of that voyage were filled with such happiness that I trembled for fear it should be snatched from me. During that time we had fair weather and favouring winds. Then we ran into a gale that lasted for days, and drove us far out of our course. One mast went by the board, the other was cut away to save the ship, and, while in this helpless condition, she struck at night, what I afterwards learned to be, a mass of floating ice. At the time all hands believed us to be on the coast, and the crew, taking our only seaworthy boat, put off in a panic, while I was below preparing my wife for departure. Thus deserted, we awaited the death that we expected with each passing moment, but it failed to come and the ship still floated. With earliest daylight I was on deck, and, to my amazement, saw land on both sides. We had been driven into the mouth of a broad estuary, up which wind and tide were still carrying us.

"For three days our helpless drift, to and fro, was continued, and then our ship grounded on a ledge at the foot of these cliffs. Getting ashore with little difficulty, we were dismayed to find ourselves in an uninhabited wilderness, devoid even of vegetation other than moss and low growing shrubs. One of my first discoveries was this cavern with its subterranean stream of water, and two openings, one of which gives easy access to the sea. Knowing that our ship must, sooner or later, go to pieces, and desirous of saving what property I might, I rigged up a derrick at the mouth of the cavern, and, with the aid of my brave wife, transferred everything movable from the wreck; a labour of months.

"Winter was now at hand, and, foreseeing that we must spend it where we were, I walled up the openings and made all possible preparations to fight the coming cold. We burned wood from the wreck while it lasted, and in the meantime I labored almost night and day at the establishment of an electric plant. But the awful winter came and found it still unfinished, and before the coming of another spring I was left alone."

Here the speaker paused, overcome as much by his feelings as by weakness, and, during the silence that followed, Cabot stole away, ostensibly to see that the dynamo was running smoothly. When he returned the narrator had recovered his calmness, and was ready to continue his story.

"She had never been strong," he said, "and I so cruelly allowed her to overwork herself that she had no strength left with which to fight the winter. She died in my arms in this very room, and I promised never to leave her. Also, after her death, I vowed that my last words to her should be my last to any human being, and, until this day, I have kept that vow, foolish and wicked though it was. I have talked and read aloud when alone, but to no man have I spoken. I have also avoided intercourse with my fellows, selfishly preferring to nurse my sorrow in sinful rebellion against God's will. Now am I justly punished by being stricken down in the pride of my strength. At the same time God has shown his everlasting mercy by sending you to me in the time of my sore need. And you have promised to stay with me until the end, which I feel assured is not far off."

"I trust it may be," said Cabot, "for the world can ill afford to spare a man of your attainments."

"The world has forgotten me ere this," replied Mr. Balfour, with a faint smile, "and has also managed to get along very well without me. Whether it has or has not I feel that I am shortly to rejoin my dear one."

"How did it happen? I mean your wound," asked Cabot, abruptly changing the subject. "Was it an accident?"

"It may have been, but I believe not. Dressed in wolf skins, I was creeping up on a small herd of caribou two days ago, when I was shot by some unknown person, probably an Indian hunting the same game, though I never saw him. I managed to crawl home, and as I lay here, filled with the horror of dying alone, the ringing of my alarm bell announced a coming of either man or beast. I found strength to turn on the outer lights and to sound a call for aid on my violin that I hoped would be heard and understood."

"It was fortunate for me that you did both those things," said Cabot, "for I should certainly have remained where I fell after stumbling over the wire if it had not been for the combination of light and music. But tell me, sir, why have you masqueraded as a man-wolf?"

"For convenience in hunting, as well as to inspire terror in the minds of savages and keep them at a respectful distance from this place."

"Have they ever troubled you?"

"At first they were inclined to, but not of late years."

"Not of late years! Why, sir, how many years have you dwelt in this place?"

"A little more than five."

"Five years alone and cut off from the world! I should think you would feel like a prisoner shut in a dungeon."

"No, for I have led the life of my own choice, and it has been full of active interests. I have had to hunt, trap, and fish for my own support. I have tried to redress some wrongs, and have been able to relieve much distress among the improvident natives. I have busied myself with electrical experiments, and have explored the surrounding country for a hundred miles on all sides."

"Have you discovered any indications of mineral wealth during your explorations?" asked the young engineer, recalling his previous thought on this subject.

"Quite a number, of which the most important is right here; for this range of cliffs is so largely composed of red hematite as to form one of the richest ore beds in the world."



CHAPTER XXVIII.

CABOT IS LEFT ALONE.

Deeply interested and affected as Cabot had been by the electrician's story, his excitement over its conclusion caused him momentarily to forget everything else.

"Does the ore show anywhere about here?" he asked eagerly.

"Yes. Lift one of the skins hanging against the wall and you will find it. It is better, though, in the lower portions of the inner cavern, for the deeper you go the richer it gets."

In another moment our young engineer was chipping bits of rock from the nearest wall, and then he must need explore those of the storeroom, where, on a bank of the subterranean stream, he found ore as rich as any he had ever seen, even in museums. Returning with hands and pockets full of specimens, he said:

"This is the very thing for which I came to Labrador, but have thus far failed to find. Of course I have discovered plenty of indications, for the whole country is full of iron, but nowhere else have I found it in quantity or of a quality that would pay to work. Here you have both, and close to a navigable waterway."

"On which the largest ships may moor to the very cliffs," added Mr. Balfour.

"It means a fortune to the owner, and I congratulate you, sir."

"My dear lad, I don't want it! I am an electrician, not a miner. Even if I were inclined to work it, which I am not, I should not be permitted to do so, for my earthly interests are very nearly ended. Therefore I cheerfully relinquish in your favour whatever claim I may have acquired by discovery or occupation. If you want it, take it, and may God's blessing go with the gift. Also, under this bed, you will find a bag containing more specimens that may interest you. Of them we will talk at another time, for now I am weary."

With this the man turned his face to the wall, while Cabot, securing the bag, quickly became absorbed in an examination of its contents. Among these he found rich specimens of iron and copper ores, slabs of the rare and exquisitely beautiful Labradorite, with its sheen of peacock-blue, and even bits of gold-bearing quartz. For a long time he examined and tested these; then, with a sigh of content, he laid them aside and went to bed. His mission to Labrador was at length accomplished, and now he had only to get back to New York as quickly as possible.

But getting to New York from that place, under existing circumstances, was something infinitely easier to plan than to accomplish. To begin with, he had promised to remain with the new-found friend, who was also so greatly his benefactor, so long as he should be needed, and he meant to fulfil the promise to the letter. But to do so taxed his patience to the utmost; for, in spite of the electrician's belief that he had not long to live, the passing of many weeks found his condition but little changed. At the same time, in spite of Cabot's best nursing and ceaseless attention, he failed to gain strength.

Having once broken his years of silence, he now found his greatest pleasure in talking, and Cabot had frequently to interrupt his conversation on the pretence of taking outside exercise, to prevent him from exhausting himself in that way. He hated to do this, for Mr. Balfour's words were always instructive, and he so freely yielded the established secrets of his profession, as well as those of his own recent discoveries, to his young friend that Cabot acquired a rich store of valuable information during the short days and long nights of that Labrador winter.

With the apparatus at hand, he was able to conduct many experiments and put into practice a number of his newly acquired theories. The sick man followed these with keenest interest, and aided his pupil with shrewd suggestions. At other times they discussed the mineral wealth of Labrador, and Mr. Balfour drew rough diagrams to show localities from which his various specimens had been brought. He also gave much time to a sketch map of the surrounding country, especially the coast between the place where the "Sea Bee" had been left and Indian Harbour, beyond which his knowledge did not extend.

With these congenial occupations, time never hung heavily in the wilderness home of the Man-wolf, and, though bitter cold might reign outside, fierce storms rage, and driving snows pile themselves into mountainous drifts, neither hunger nor cold could penetrate its snug interior, warmed and lighted by the magic of modern science. With the passing weeks the old year died and a new one was born. January merged into February, and days began noticeably to lengthen. Through all these weeks Cabot kept up his strength by frequent exercise in the open, where, in conflict with storm and cold, he ever won some part of their own ruggedness. At the same time, his patient grew slowly but surely weaker, until at length he could converse only in whispers, and experienced such difficulty in swallowing that he had almost ceased to take nourishment. One evening while affairs stood thus, he roused himself sufficiently to inquire what day of the month it was.

"The thirteenth of February," replied Cabot, who had kept careful note of the calendar.

Instantly the man brightened, and said, with an unexpected strength of voice: "Six years to-morrow since we were married. Five years to-day since she left me, and to-night I shall rejoin her. Wish me joy, lad, for the long period of our separation is ended. Good-night, good-bye, God bless you!"

With this final utterance, he again lapsed into silence, closed his eyes, and seemed to sleep. Several times during that night Cabot stole softly to his patient's bedside, but the latter was always asleep, and he would not disturb him. Only in the morning, when daylight revealed the marble-like repose of feature, did he know that a glad reunion of long parted lovers had been effected, and that it was he who was left alone.

Although the position in which our lad now found himself was a very trying one, he had anticipated and planned for it. He had no boards with which to make a coffin, but there was plenty of stout canvas, and in a double thickness of this he sewed the body of his friend. Before doing so he dug away the snow beside a cairn of rocks that marked the last resting place of her who had gone before, and placed the electric heater, with extended wire connections, on the ground thus exposed. Within a few hours this soil became sufficiently thawed to permit him to dig a shallow grave, to which, by great effort, he managed to remove the shrouded body. After covering it, and piling above it rocks as large as he could lift, he returned to the empty dwelling, having completed the hardest and saddest day's work of his life.

So terrible was the loneliness of that night, and so anxious was Cabot to take his departure, that he was again astir long before daylight, completing his preparations. He had previously built a light sled that he proposed to drag, and had planned exactly what it should carry. Now he loaded this with a canvas-wrapped package of cooked provisions, a sleeping bag, a rifle together with a few rounds of ammunition, a light axe, his precious bag of specimens, and the Man-wolf's electric flashlight with its battery newly charged.

With everything thus in readiness he ate a hearty meal, threw the dynamo out of gear, closed the door and shutters of the place that had given him the shelter of a home, adjusted the hauling straps of his sled, and set resolutely forth on his venturesome journey across the frozen wilderness.

In his mittened hands Cabot carried a stout staff tipped with a boathook, and this proved of inestimable service in aiding him down the face of the cliffs to the frozen surface of the estuary; for, by Mr. Balfour's advice, he had determined to follow the coast line rather than attempt the shorter but more uncertain inland route.

Although the distance to be covered was but little over one hundred miles, the journey was so beset with difficulties and hardships that only our young engineer's splendid physical condition and recently acquired skill, combined with indomitable pluck, enabled him to accomplish it. While he sometimes met with smooth stretches of snow-covered ice, it was generally piled in huge wind-rows, incredibly rugged and difficult to surmount. Again it would be broken away from the base of sheer cliffs, where stretches of open water would necessitate toilsome inland detours over or around lofty headlands. He was always buffetted by strong winds, and often halted by blinding snowstorms. He had no fire, no warm food, and no shelter save such as he could make by burrowing into snowdrifts. During the weary hours of one whole night he held a pack of snarling wolves at bay by means of his flashlight. But always he pushed doggedly forward, and after ten days of struggle, exhausted almost beyond the power for further effort, but immensely proud of his achievement, he reached the goal of his long desire.

Indian Harbour—with its hospital, its church, its two or three houses, and score of native huts, seemed to our lad almost a metropolis after his months of wilderness life, and the welcome he received from its warm-hearted inhabitants when he made known his identity was that of one raised from the dead. White Baldwin and Yim had been there many weeks earlier, and had reported his disappearance under circumstances that left no hope of his ever again being seen alive. Then the latter had set forth on his return journey, while White had joined a mail carrier and started for Battle Harbour.

Now occurred what promised to be a serious interruption to Cabot's southward advance, for no one was proposing to travel in that direction, and, in spite of their hospitality, his new acquaintances were not inclined to undertake the arduous task of guiding him to Battle Harbour, 250 miles away, without being well paid for their labour, and our young engineer had no money. Nor, after his recent experience, did he care to again encounter the perils of the wilderness alone.

But fortune once more favoured him; for while he was chafing against this enforced detention, Dr. Graham Aspland, house surgeon of the Battle Harbour Hospital, who makes a heroic sledge journey to the far north every winter, arrived on his annual errand of mercy. He would set out on his return trip a few days later, and would be more than pleased to have Cabot for a companion.

Thus it happened that one bright day in early March the music of sledge bells and the cracking of a dog driver's whip attracted the inmates of the Battle Harbour Hospital to doors and windows to witness an arrival. Two fur-clad figures followed a great travelling sledge, and one of them dragged a small sled of his own. As he came to a halt, and began wearily to loosen his hauling gear, he cast a glance at one of the upper windows, and uttered an exclamation of amazement. Then, with a joyful cry, he shouted:

"Hello! White, old man! Run down here and say you're glad I've come!"



CHAPTER XXIX.

DRIFTING WITH THE ICE PACK.

Cabot had learned from Dr. Aspland of White's arrival at Battle Harbour two months before, with a leg so badly wrenched by slipping into an ice crevice that he had gone to the hospital for treatment, but had expected that he would long ere this have taken his departure. At the same time White had, of course, given up all hope of ever again seeing the friend to whom he had become so deeply attached. He had been terribly cut up over Cabot's disappearance on the night of the blizzard, and, with the faithful Yim, had spent days in searching for him. They had gone back to the timber, only to find the Indian camp deserted, and that its recent occupants had made a hasty departure. Finally they had given over the hopeless search and had sadly continued their southward journey.

Now to again behold Cabot alive and well filled poor White with such joyful amazement that for some minutes he could not frame an intelligent sentence. He flew down to where the new arrival still struggled with his hauling gear, and flung himself so impulsively upon him that both rolled over in the snow. There, with gasping exclamations of delight, they wrestled themselves into a mood of comparative calmness that enabled them to regain their feet and begin to ask questions.

For some time White had been sufficiently recovered to resume his journey, had an opportunity offered for so doing, but, as none had come to him, he had earned his board by acting as nurse in the hospital. If he had been anxious to depart before, he was doubly so now that he had regained his comrade, and Cabot fully shared his impatience of further delay. But how they were to reach the coast of Newfoundland they could not imagine. It would still be many weeks before vessels of any kind could be expected at Battle Harbour, and they had no money with which to undertake the expensive journey by way of Quebec.

"If only the ocean would freeze over, we could walk home!" exclaimed Cabot one day, as the two friends sat gloomily discussing their prospects. And then that very thing came to pass.

A dog sledge arrived from Forteau, that same evening, bringing a wounded man to the hospital for treatment, and its driver reported the Strait of Belle Isle as being so solidly packed with ice that several persons had traversed it from shore to shore.

"If others have made the trip, why can't we?" cried Cabot.

"I am willing to try it, if you are," replied White, and by daylight of the following morning the impatient lads were on their way up the coast in search of the ice bridge to Newfoundland. Cabot had traded his electric flashlight for a supply of provisions sufficient to load his sled, which they took turns at hauling, and four days after leaving Battle Harbour they reached L'Anse au Loup. At that point the strait is only a dozen miles wide, and there, if anywhere, they could cross it. It was midday when they came to the winter huts of L'Anse au Loup, and they had intended remaining in one of them over night, but a short conversation with its owner caused them to change their plans.

"Yas, there be solid pack clear to ither side all right," he said, "but happen it 'll go out any time. Fust change o' wind 'll loose it, and one's to be looked for. Ah wouldn't resk it on no account mahself, but if Ah had it to do, Ah'd go in a hurry 'ithout wasting no time."

"It is a case of necessity with us," said Cabot.

"Yes," agreed White, "we simply must go, and the quicker we set about it the better. If we make haste I believe we can get across by dark."

Thus determined, and disregarding a further expostulation from the fisherman, our lads set their faces resolutely towards the confusion of hummocks, "pans," floes tilted on edge, and up-reared masses of blue ice forming the "strait's pack" of that season. Five minutes later they were lost to sight amid the frozen chaos.

"Wal," soliloquized the man left standing on shore, "Ah 'opes they'll make it, but it's a fearsome resk, an' Gawd 'elp 'em if come a shift o' wind afore they're over."

Nothing, in all their previous experience of Labrador travel, had equalled the tumultuous ruggedness of the way by which Cabot and White were now attempting to bridge that boisterous arm of the stormy northern ocean, and to advance at all taxed their strength to the utmost. To transport their laden sled was next to impossible, but they dared not leave it behind, and with their progress thus impeded they were barely half way to the Newfoundland coast when night overtook them. Even though the gathering darkness had not compelled a halt, their utter exhaustion would have demanded a rest. For an hour White had been obliged to clinch his teeth to keep from crying out with the pain of his weakened, and now overstrained, ankle, and when Cabot announced that it was no use trying to get further before morning, he sank to the ice with a groan.

Full of sympathy for his comrade's suffering, the Yankee lad at once set to work to make him as comfortable as circumstances would permit, and soon had him lying on a sleeping bag, in a niche formed by two uptilted slabs of ice. Profiting by past experience, they had procured and brought with them an Eskimo lamp with its moss wick, a small quantity of seal oil, and a supply of matches, so that, after a while, Cabot procured enough boiling water to furnish a small pot of tea. When they had eaten their simple meal of tea, hard bread, and pemmican, White's ankle was bathed with water as hot as he could bear it, and then the weary lads turned in for such sleep as their cheerless quarters might yield. About midnight the wind that had for many days blown steadily from the eastward changed to northwest, and, with the coming of daylight, it was blowing half a gale from that direction.

To Cabot this change meant little or nothing, and he was suggesting that they remain where they were until White's leg should be thoroughly rested, when the other interrupted him with:

"But we can't stay here. Don't you feel the change of wind?"

"What of it?" asked Cabot.

"Oh, nothing at all, only that it will drive the ice out to sea, and, if we haven't reached land before it begins to move, we'll go with it."

"You don't mean it!" cried Cabot, now thoroughly alarmed. "In that case we'd best get a move on in a hurry. Do you think your leg will stand the trip?"

"It will have to," rejoined White, grimly; and a few minutes later they had resumed the toilsome progress that was now a race for life. But it was a snail's race, for the task of moving the sled had devolved entirely upon Cabot, White having all he could do to drag himself along. Each step gave him such exquisite pain that, by the time they had accomplished a couple of miles, he was crawling on hands and knees.

Still, as Cabot hopefully pointed out, the Newfoundland coast was in plain sight, and the ice held as firm as ever. He had hardly spoken when there came a distant roaring, that quickly developed into a sound of crashing and grinding not to be mistaken.

"The ice is moving!" gasped White.

"Then," said Cabot bravely, "we'll move too. Come on, old man. We'll leave the sled, and I'll get you ashore even if I have to carry you. It isn't so very far now."

With this the speaker disengaged his hauling straps and turned to assist his comrade, but, to his dismay, the latter lay on the ice pale and motionless. What with pain, over-exertion, and excitement, White had fainted, and Cabot must either carry him to the shore, remain beside him until he recovered, or leave him to his fate and save himself by flight over the still unbroken ice. He tried the first plan, picked White up, staggered a few steps with his helpless burden, and discovered its futility. Then he proceeded to put the second into execution by calmly unloading the sled and making such arrangements as his slender means would allow for his comrade's comfort. The third plan came to him merely as a thought, to be promptly dismissed as unworthy of consideration.

In the meantime the ominous sounds of cracking, grinding, rending, and splitting grew ever louder, and came ever closer, until, at length, Cabot could see and feel that the ice all about him was in motion. By the time White recovered consciousness, a broad lane of black water had opened between that place and the Newfoundland coast, while others could be seen in various directions.

"What are you doing?" asked White, feebly, after he had struggled back to a knowledge of passing events, and had, for some minutes, been watching his friend's movements.

"Building an igloo," answered Cabot, cheerily. "We might as well be comfortable while we can, and though my hut won't have the architectural beauty that Yim could give it, I believe it will keep us warm."

It would have been more than easy, and perfectly natural, under the circumstances, to give way to utter despair; for of the several hopeless situations in which our lads had been placed during the past few months, the present was, by far, the worst. At any moment the ice beneath them might open and drop them into fathomless waters. Even if it held fast, they were certainly being carried out to sea, where they would be exposed to furious gales that must ultimately work their destruction. In spite of all this, Cabot Grant insisted on remaining hopefully cheerful. He said he had squeezed out of just as tight places before, and believed he would get out of this one somehow. At any rate, as crying wouldn't help it, he wasn't going to cry. Besides all sorts of things might happen. They might drift ashore somewhere or into the track of passing steamers. Wouldn't it be fine to be picked up and carried straight to New York? If steamers failed them, they were almost certain to sight fishing boats sooner or later.

"Yes," added White, catching some of his companion's hopefulness, "or we may meet with the sealers who leave St. Johns about this time every year and hunt seals on the ice pack off shore."

"Of course," agreed the other. "So what's the use of worrying?"

In spite of the brave front and cheerful aspect that Cabot maintained before his helpless comrade, he often broke down when off by himself, vainly straining his eyes from the summit of some ice hummock for any hopeful sign, and acknowledged that their situation was indeed desperate.

That first night, spent sleeplessly and in momentary expectation that the ice beneath them would break, was the worst. After that they dreaded more than anything the fate that would overtake them with the disappearance of their slender stock of provisions. While this diminished with alarming rapidity, despite their efforts at economy, their ice island drifted out from the strait, and soon afterwards became incorporated with the great Arctic pack that always in the spring forces its resistless way steadily south-ward towards the melting waters of the Gulf Stream.

Land had disappeared with the second day of the ice movement, and after that, for a week, nothing occurred to break the terrible monotony of life on the pack, as experienced by our young castaways. Then came the dreaded announcement that one portion of their supplies was exhausted. There was no longer a drop of oil for their lamp.



CHAPTER XXX.

THE COMING OF DAVID GIDGE.

White, who was still confined to the hut with his strained ankle, announced that they no longer had any oil upon Cabot's return at dusk from a day of fruitless hunting and outlook duty on the ice.

"That's bad," replied the latter, in a tone whose cheerfulness strove to conceal his anxiety. "Now we'll have to burn the sled. Lucky thing for us that it's of wood instead of being one of those bone affairs such as we saw at Locked Harbour."

"Our provisions are nearly gone too," added White. "In fact we've only enough for one more day."

"Oh, well! A lot of things can happen in a day, and some of them may happen to us."

But the only thing worthy of note that happened on the following day was a storm of such violence as to compel even stout-hearted Cabot to remain behind the sheltering walls of the hut, and, while it raged, our shivering lads, crouched above a tiny blaze of sled wood, ate their last morsel of food. They still had a small quantity of tea, but that was all. As soon, therefore, as the storm abated Cabot sallied forth with his gun, still hopeful, in spite of many disappointments, of finding some bird or beast that, by a lucky shot, might be brought to the table.

The ice pack was of such vast extent that it seemed as though it must support animal life of some kind, but Cabot traversed it that day for many miles without finding so much as a track or a feather. That night's supper was a pot of tea, and a similar one formed the sole nourishment upon which Cabot again set forth the next morning for another of those weary hunts.

This time he went further from the hut than he had dared go on previous expeditions; but on them he had been hopeful and knew that even though he failed in his hunting he would still find food awaiting him on his return. Now he was desperate with hunger, and the knowledge that failing in his present effort he would not have strength for another. In his mind, too, he carried a vivid picture of poor White, crouching in that wretched hut over an expiring blaze fed by the very last of their wood.

"I simply can't go back empty-handed!" he cried aloud. "It would be better not to go back at all, and let him hope for my coming to the last."

So the young hunter pushed wearily and hopelessly on, until he found himself at the foot of a line of icebergs that had been frozen into the pack, where they resembled a range of fantastically shaped hills. Cabot had seen them from a distance on a previous expedition, and had wondered what lay beyond. Now he determined to find out, though he knew if he once crossed them there would be little chance of regaining the hut before dark. It was a laborious climb, and several times he slid back to the place of starting, but each mishap of this kind only made him the more determined to gain the top. At length, breathless and bruised, crawling on hands and knees, he reached a point from which he could look beyond the barrier. As he did so, he turned sick and uttered a choking cry.



What he saw in that first glance was so utterly incredible that it could not be true, though if it were it would be the most welcome and beautiful sight in all the world. Yet it was only a ship! Just one ship and a lot of men! The ship was not even a handsome one, being merely a three-masted steam sealer, greasy and smeared in every part with coal soot from her tall smoke stack. She lay a mile or so away, but well within the pack, through the outer edge of which she had forced a passage. The men, evidently her crew, who were on the ice near the foot of Cabot's ridge, were a disreputable looking lot, ragged, dirty, unkempt, and as bloody as so many butchers. And that is exactly what they were—butchers engaged in their legitimate business of killing the seals that, coming up from the south to meet the drifting ice pack, had crawled out on it by thousands to rear their young.

This was all that Cabot saw; yet the sight so affected him that he laughed and sobbed for joy. Then he stood up, and, with glad tears blinding his eyes, tried to shout to the men beneath him, but could only utter hoarse whispers; for, in his overpowering happiness, he had almost lost the power of speech. As he could not call to them he began to wave his arms to attract their attention, and then, all at once, he was nearly paralysed by a hail from close at hand of:

"Hello there, ye bloomin' idjit! Wot's hup?"

Whirling around, Cabot saw, standing only a few rods away, a man who had evidently just climbed the opposite side of the ridge. He recognised him in an instant, as he must have done had he met him in the most crowded street of a great city, so distinctively peculiar was his figure.

"David! David Gidge!" he gasped, recovering his voice for the effort, and in another moment, flinging his arms about the astonished mariner's neck, he was pouring out a flood of incoherent words.

"Wal, I'll be jiggered!" remarked Mr. Gidge, as he disengaged himself from Cabot's impulsive embrace and stepped back for a more comprehensive view. "Your voice sounds familiar, Mister, but I can't say as I ever seen you before. I took ye fust off fer a b'ar, and then fer a Huskie. When I seen you was white, I 'lowed ye might be one of the 'Marmaid's' crew, seeing as she was heading fer the pack 'bout the time we struck it. Now, though, as I say, I'm jiggered ef I know exectly who ye be."

"Why, Mr. Gidge, I'm Cabot Grant, who——"

"Of course. To be sartin! Now I know ye!" interrupted the other. "But where's White? What hev ye done with Whiteway Baldwin?"

"He's back there on the ice helpless with a crippled leg, freezing and starving to death; but if you'll come at once I'll show you the way, and we may still be in time to save him."

With instant comprehension of the necessity for prompt action, Mr. Gidge, who, as Cabot afterwards learned, was first mate of the sealer "Labrador," turned and shouted in stentorian tones to the men who were working below:

"Knock off, all hands, and follow me. Form a line and keep hailing distance apart, so's we'll find our way back after dark. There's white men starving on the ice. One of ye go to the ship and report. Move lively! Now, lad, I'm ready."

Two hours later Cabot and David Gidge, with, a long line of men streaming out behind them, reached the little hut. There was no answer to the cheery shouts with which they approached it, and, as they crawled through its low entrance, they were filled with anxious misgivings. What if they were too late after all? No spark of fire lighted the gloom or took from the deadly chill of the interior, and no voice bade them welcome. But, as David Gidge struck a match, a low moaning sounded from one side, and told them that White was at least alive.

It took but a minute to remove him from the hut, together with the few things worth taking away that it contained. Then it was left without a shadow of regret, and the march to the distant ship was begun. Four men carried White, who seemed to have sunk into a stupor, while two more supported Cabot, who had become suddenly weak and so weary that he begged to be allowed to sleep where he was.

"It's been a close call for both of 'em," said David Gidge, "and now, men, we've got to make the quickest kind of time getting 'em back to the ship."

Fortunately there were plenty of willing hands to which the burdens might be shifted, for the "Labrador" carried a crew two hundred strong, and, as the little party moved swiftly from one shouting man to another, it constantly gained accessions.

At length the sealer was reached, and the rescued lads were taken to her cabin, where the ship's doctor, having made every possible preparation for their reception, awaited them. They were given hot drinks, rubbed, fed, and placed between warm blankets, where poor, weary Cabot was at last allowed to fall asleep without further interruption.

The animal sought by the sealers of Newfoundland amid the furious storms and crashing floes of the great ice pack is not the fur-bearing seal of Alaska, but a variety of the much less important hair seal, which may be seen almost anywhere along the Atlantic coast. From its skin seal leather is made, but it is chiefly valuable for the oil yielded by the layer of fat lying directly beneath the skin and enveloping the entire body. These seals would hardly be worth hunting unless they could be captured easily and in quantities; but, on their native ice in early spring, the young seals are found in prime condition and in vast numbers. Each helpless victim is killed by a blow on the head, "sculped" or stripped of his pelt, and the flayed body is left lying in a pool of its own blood.

The crew of a single vessel will thus destroy thousands of seals in a day, and in some prosperous years the total kill of seals has passed the half million mark. Now only about a dozen steamers are engaged in the business, but by them from 200,000 to 300,000 seals are destroyed each spring. The movements of sealing vessels are governed by rigidly enforced laws that forbid them to leave port before the 12th of March, to kill a seal before the 14th of the same month, or after the 20th of April, and prohibit any steamer from making more than one trip during this short open season. The crews are paid in shares of the catch, and men are never difficult to obtain for the work, as the sealing season comes when there is nothing else to be done.

As March was not yet ended when our lads were received aboard the "Labrador," and as she would not return to port until the last minute of the open season had expired, they had before them nearly a month in which to recover their exhausted energies and learn the business of sealing. White had suffered so severely, and reached such a precarious condition, that he required every day of the allotted time for recuperation, and even at its end his strength was by no means fully restored. Cabot, on the other hand, woke after a thirty-six-hour nap, ravenously hungry, and as fit as ever for anything that might offer. After that, although he could never bring himself to assist in clubbing baby seals to death, he took an active part in the other work of the ship, thereby fully repaying the cost of the food eaten by himself and White.

Of course, with their very first opportunity, both lads eagerly plied David Gidge with questions concerning the welfare of the Baldwin family and everything that had happened during their long absence. Thus they learned to their dismay that another suit had been brought against the Baldwin estate that threatened to swallow what little property had been left, and that White, having been convicted of contempt of court for continuing the lobster factory after an adverse decision had been rendered, was now liable to a fine of one thousand dollars, or imprisonment, as soon as he landed.

"But what has become of my mother and sister?" asked White.

"They are in Harbour Grace," answered David Gidge, "stopping with some kin of mine. You see, all three of us was brung to St. Johns as witnesses, and there wasn't money enough to take us back till I could come sealing and make some."

"You are a trump, David Gidge!" exclaimed Cabot, while White gratefully squeezed the honest fellow's hand.

"I promised to look arter 'em till you come back," said the sailorman, simply.

At length the sealing season closed, and the prow of the "Labrador" was turned homeward, but even now, after many an anxious discussion, our lads were undecided as to what they should do upon landing. But a solution of the problem came to Cabot on the day that the steamer entered Conception Bay and anchored close off Bell Island, to await the moving of a great ice mass that had drifted into the harbour.

"I know what we'll do!" he cried.



CHAPTER XXXI.

ASSISTANT MANAGER OF THE MAN-WOLF MINE.

As the deeply laden sealer drew near to land, Cabot had impatiently scanned the coast of the great island that he had once thought so remote, but which, after his long sojourn in the Labrador wilderness, now seemed almost the same as New York itself. When the "Labrador" entered Conception Bay, at the head of which lies Harbour Grace, her home port, and was forced by ice to anchor, he inquired concerning a small island that lay close at hand.

"Bell Island," he repeated meditatively, on being told its name. "Isn't there an iron mine on it?"

"Sartain," replied David Gidge. "The whole island is mostly made of iron."

"Then it is a place that I particularly want to visit, and I know what we will do. Of course, White, we can't let you go to prison, but at the same time you haven't, immediately available, the money with which to pay that fine. I have, though, right in St. Johns. So, if you will endorse that New York draft to me, I will carry it into the city, deposit it at the bank, draw out the cash, and take the first train for Harbour Grace, so as to be there with more than enough money to pay your fine when you arrive. After that I propose that we both go on to New York, where I am almost certain I can get you something to do that will pay even better than a lobster factory. If that plan strikes you as all right, and if Mr. Gidge will set me ashore here, I'll just take a look at Bell Island and then hurry on to St. Johns."

The plan appearing feasible to White, Cabot—taking with him only his bag of specimens, to which he intended to add others of the Bell Island ore—bade his friends a temporary farewell, and was set ashore. As the country was still covered with snow, he had slung his snowshoes on his back, and as he was still clad in the well-worn fur garments that had been so necessary in Labrador, his appearance was sufficiently striking to attract attention as soon as he landed. One of the very first persons who spoke to him proved to be the young superintendent of the mine he wished to visit, and, when this gentleman learned that Cabot had just returned from Labrador, he offered him every hospitality. Not only did he show him over the mine and give him all possible information concerning it, but he kept him over night in his own bachelor quarters, and provided a boat to take him across to Portugal Cove on the mainland in the morning.

From that point, there being no conveyance, Cabot was forced to walk the nine miles into St. Johns, which city he did not reach until nearly noon. Even there, where fur-clad Arctic explorers are not uncommon, Cabot's costume attracted much attention. Disregarding this, he inquired his way to the Bank of Nova Scotia, where he presented the letter of credit that he had carefully treasured amid all the vicissitudes of the past ten months. The paying teller of the bank examined it closely, and then took a long look at the remarkable-appearing young man who had presented it. Finally he said curtly:

"Sign your name."

Cabot did so, and the other, after comparing the two signatures, retired to an inner room. From it he reappeared a few moments later and requested Cabot to follow him inside, where the manager wished to see him.

The manager also regarded our lad with great curiosity as he said:

"You have retained this letter a long time without presenting it."

"And I might have retained it longer if I had not been in need of money," rejoined Cabot, somewhat nettled by the man's manner.

"You are Cabot Grant of New York?"

"I am."

"Not yet of age?"

"Not quite."

"And you have a guardian?"

"I have."

"Do you mind telling his name and address?"

"Is that a necessary preliminary to drawing money on a letter of credit?"

"In this case it is."

"Well, then, he is James Hepburn, President of the Gotham Trust and Investment Company."

"Just so, and you will doubtless be interested in this communication from him."

So saying, the manager handed over the telegram in which Mr. Hepburn instructed the St. Johns branch of the Bank of Nova Scotia to advance only the price of a ticket to New York on a letter of credit that would be presented by his ward, Cabot Grant.

"What does it mean?" asked Cabot in bewilderment, as he finished reading this surprising order.

"I've no idea," replied the manager dryly. "I only know that we are bound to follow those instructions, and can let you have but forty dollars, which is the price of a first-class ticket to New York by steamer. Moreover, as this is sailing day, and the New York steamer leaves in a couple of hours, I would advise you to engage passage and go on board at once, if you do not want to be indefinitely detained here."

"In what way?"

"Possibly by the sheriff, who has wanted you for some time in connection with a certain French Shore lobster case that the government is prosecuting."

Perplexed and indignant as he was, Cabot realised that only in New York could his tangled affairs be straightened out, and that the quicker he got there the better. Determined, however, to make one more effort in behalf of his friend, he produced the missionary's draft and asked if the manager would cash it.

"Certainly not," replied that individual promptly. "Under present circumstances, Mr. Grant, we must decline to have any business dealings with you other than to accept your receipt for forty dollars, which will be paid you in the outer office."

So Cabot swallowed his pride, took what he could get, and left the bank a little more downcast than he had been at any time since the day on which President Hepburn had entrusted him with his present mission.

"I don't understand it at all," he muttered to himself, as he sought an eating-house, where he proposed to expend a portion of his money in satisfying his keen appetite. "Seems to me it is a mighty mean return for all I have gone through, and Mr. Hepburn will have to explain matters pretty clearly when I get back to New York."

From the eating-house Cabot sent a letter to White, explaining his inability to secure the money he had expected, begging him to lie low for a few days, and announcing his own immediate departure for New York, from which place he promised to send back the amount of the draft immediately upon his arrival. In this letter Cabot also enclosed fifteen dollars, just to help White out until he could send him some more money. This outlay left our young engineer but twenty-five dollars, but that would pay for a steerage passage, which, he reflected, would be plenty good enough for one in his reduced circumstances, and leave a few dollars for emergencies when he reached New York.

Two hours later, still clutching the bag of specimens that now formed his sole luggage, he stood on the forward deck of the steamer "Amazon" as she slipped through the narrow passage leading out from the land-locked harbour, gazing back at the city of St. Johns climbing its steep hillside and dominated by the square towers of its Roman Catholic cathedral. He was feeling very forlorn and lonely, and was wondering how he should manage to exist on steerage fare in steerage company during the next five days, when a familiar voice, close at hand, said:

"Hello, young man in furs! Where do you come from? Been to the North Pole with Peary?"

Turning quickly, Cabot gasped out:

"Captain Phinney!"

"No, not cap'n, but second mate Phinney," retorted the other. "But how do you know my name? I don't recognise you."

"I am Cabot Grant, who was with you on the 'Lavinia' when——"

"Good heavens, man! It can't be."

"It is, though, and I never was more glad to see any one, not even David Gidge, than I am to see you at this minute. But why are you second mate instead of captain?"

"Because," replied the other bitterly, "it was the only berth they would give me after I lost my ship, and I had to take it or beg."

"But I thought you went down with the 'Lavinia'?"

"So I thought you did, but it seems both of us were mistaken. All but you got off in two of the boats, and ours was picked up the next day by a liner bound for New York. But how, in the name of all that is wonderful— Hold on, though. Let us go up to my room, where we can talk comfortably."

As a result of this happy meeting, Cabot's voyage was made very pleasant after all. Much as he had to tell and to hear, he also found time to write out a full report on the Bell Island mine, and also a series of notes concerning the ore specimens that he was carrying to New York.

At length the great city was reached, the "Amazon" was made fast to her Brooklyn pier, and Cabot went to bid the second mate good-bye. "Hold on a bit," said the latter, "and run up to the house with me. You can't go without seeing Nelly and the baby."

"Nice calling rig I've got on, haven't I?" laughed Cabot. "Why, it would scare 'em stiff. So not to-day, thank you; but I'll come to-morrow."

The carriage that Cabot engaged to carry him across to the city cost him his last cent of money, but he knew it was well worth it when, still in furs and with his snowshoes still strapped to his back, he entered the Gotham building. Such a sensation did he create that he would have been mobbed in another minute had he not dodged into an elevator and said:

"President's room, please."

He so petrified Mr. Hepburn's clerks and office boys by his remarkable appearance that they neglected to check his progress, and allowed him to walk unchallenged into the sacred private office. Its sole occupant was writing, and did not notice the entrance until Cabot, laying a folded paper on his desk, said:

"Here is that Bell Island report, Mr. Hepburn."

The startled man sprang to his feet with a face as pale as though he had seen a ghost, and for a few moments stared in speechless amazement at the fur-clad intruder. Then the light of recognition flashed into his eyes, and holding out a cordial hand he said:

"My dear boy, how you frightened me! Where on earth did you come from?"

"From the steerage of the steamer 'Amazon,'" replied Cabot, stiffly, ignoring his guardian's proffered hand. "I only dropped in to hand you that Bell Island report, and to say that, as this happens to be my twenty-first birthday, I shall be pleased to receive whatever of my property you may still hold in trust at your earliest convenience. With that business transacted, it is perhaps needless to add, that I shall trouble no further the man who was cruel enough to leave me penniless among strangers."

"Cabot, are you crazy, or what do you mean? I received your Bell Island report months ago, and it was that caused me to recall you. Why did you not come at once?"

"I never sent a Bell Island report. In fact I never wrote one until yesterday, and there it lies. Nor did I ever receive any notice of recall, and I did not come back sooner because I have been following your instructions and wintering in Labrador. There I have acquired one of the most remarkable iron properties in the world, which I intend to develop as far as possible with my own resources, seeing that not one cent of your money has been used in defraying the expenses of my recent trip," replied Cabot, hotly.

But Mr. Hepburn did not hear the last of this speech, for he had opened the report laid on his desk and was glancing rapidly through it.

"This is exactly what I expected and wanted!" he exclaimed. "Why didn't you send it in before, instead of that other one?"

"I never sent any other," repeated Cabot, and then they sat down to mutual explanations.

For that whole morning President Hepburn denied himself to all callers and devoted his entire attention to Cabot's recital. When it was finished, and when the bag full of specimens had been examined, the elder man grasped the other's hand and said:

"My dear boy, you have done splendidly! I am not only satisfied with you as an agent, but am proud of you as a ward. Yes, this is your day of freedom from our guardianship, and I shall take pleasure in turning over to you the balance of the property left by your father. It, together with the balance remaining on your letter of credit, and your salary for the past year, will amount to about ten thousand dollars, a portion of which at least I would advise you to invest in the Man-wolf mine."



"Then you intend to develop it, sir?" cried Cabot.

"Certainly, provided we can acquire your claim to the property, and engage a certain Mr. Cabot Grant to act as our assistant Labrador manager."

"Do you think me capable of filling so responsible a position, sir?"

"I am convinced of it," replied Mr. Hepburn, smiling.

"And may I find places for White, and David Gidge, and Captain Phinney, and——"

"One of the duties of your new position will be the selection of your subordinates," interrupted the other, "and I should hope you would give preference to those whose fidelity you have already tested."

Within an hour after this happy conclusion of the interview, Cabot had wired White Baldwin the full amount of the missionary's draft and invited him to come as quickly as possible to New York. He had also written to Captain Phinney asking him to resign at once his position as second mate, in order that he might assume command of a steamer shortly to be put on a run between New York and Labrador.

With these pleasant duties performed, our young engineer prepared to accept President Hepburn's invitation to a dinner that was to be given in his honour, and with which the happiest day of his life was to be concluded.



THE END.