He was not the least “professional,” talked about the country and how to live here, saying incidentally that he had spent twelve years at the mission of the Holy Cross.  The Yukon wasn’t a bad place to live in, he told them, if men only took the trouble to learn how to live here.  While teaching the Indians, there was a great deal to learn from them as well.

“You must all come and see our schools,” he wound up.

“We’d like to awfully,” said the Boy, and all but Mac echoed him.  “We were so afraid,” he went on, “that we mightn’t see anybody all winter long.”

“Oh, you’ll have more visitors than you want.”

“Shall we, though?” Then, with a modified rapture:  “Indians, I suppose, and—­and missionaries.”

“Traders, too, and miners, and this year cheechalkos as well.  You are directly on the great highway of winter travel.  Now that there’s a good hard crust on the snow you will have dog-trains passing every week, and sometimes two or three.”

It was good news!

“We’ve already had one visitor before you,” said the Boy, looking wonderfully pleased at the prospect the priest had opened out.  “You must know Nicholas of Pymeut, don’t you?”

“Oh yes; we all know Nicholas”; and the priest smiled.

“We like him,” returned the Boy as if some slighting criticism had been passed upon his friend.

“Of course you do; so do we all”; and still that look of quiet amusement on the worn face and a keener twinkle glinting in the eyes.

“We’re afraid he’s sick,” the Boy began.

Before the priest could answer, “He was educated at Howly Cross, he says,” contributed O’Flynn.

“Oh, he’s been to Holy Cross, among other places.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, Nicholas is a most impartial person.  He was born at Pymeut, but his father, who is the richest and most intelligent man in his tribe, took Nicholas to Ikogimeut when the boy was only six.  He was brought up in the Russian mission there, as the father had been before him, and was a Greek—­in religion—­till he was fourteen.  There was a famine that year down yonder, so Nicholas turned Catholic and came up to us.  He was at Holy Cross some years, when business called him to Anvik, where he turned Episcopalian.  At Eagle City, I believe, he is regarded as a pattern Presbyterian.  There are those that say, since he has been a pilot, Nicholas makes six changes a trip in his religious convictions.”

Father Wills saw that the Colonel, to whom he most frequently addressed himself, took his pleasantry gravely.  “Nicholas is not a bad fellow,” he added.  “He told me you had been kind to him.”

“If you believe that about his insincerity,” said the Colonel, “are you not afraid the others you spend your life teaching may turn out as little credit to you—­to Christianity?”

The priest glanced at the listening Indian.  “No,” said he gravely; “I do not think all the natives are like Nicholas.  Andrew here is a true son of the Church.  But even if it were otherwise, we, you know”—­the Jesuit rose from the table with that calm smile of his—­“we simply do the work without question.  The issue is not in our hands.”  He made the sign of the cross and set back his stool.