But until the last phantasmal hope went down before the logic of events it was impossible not to cling to the idea of melting Mac’s Arctic heart.  There was still one course untried.

Since there was so little left to do to the stockade, the Boy announced that he thought he’d go up over the hill for a tramp.  Gun in hand and grub in pocket, he marched off to play his last trump-card.  If he could bring home a queer enough bird or beast for the collection, there was still hope.  To what lengths might Mac not go if one dangled before him the priceless bait of a golden-tipped emperor goose, dressed in imperial robes of rose-flecked snow?  Or who, knowing Mac, would not trust a Xema Sabinii to play the part of a white-winged angel of peace?  Failing some such heavenly messenger, there was nothing for it but that the Boy should face the ignominy of going forth to meet the Father on the morrow, and confess the humiliating truth.  It wasn’t fair to let him come expecting hospitality, and find—.  Visions arose of Mac receiving the bent and wayworn missionary with the greeting:  “There is no corner by the fire, no place in the camp for a pander to the Scarlet Woman.”  The thought lent impassioned fervour to the quest for goose or gull.

It was pretty late when he got back to camp, and the men were at supper.  No, he hadn’t shot anything.

“What’s that bulging in your pocket?”

“Sort o’ stone.”

“Struck it rich?”

“Don’t give me any chin-music, boys; give me tea.  I’m dog-tired.”

But when Mac got up first, as usual, to go down to the Little Cabin to “wood up” for the night, “I’ll walk down with you,” says the Boy, though it was plain he was dead-beat.

He helped to revive the failing fire, and then, dropping on the section of sawed wood that did duty for a chair, with some difficulty and a deal of tugging he pulled “the sort o’ stone” out of the pocket of his duck shooting-jacket.

“See that?” He held the thing tightly clasped in his two red, chapped hands.

Mac bent down, shading his eyes from the faint flame flicker.

“What is it?” “Piece o’ tooth.”

“By the Lord Harry! so it is.”  He took the thing nearer the faint light.  “Fossil!  Where’d you get it?”

“Over yonder—­by a little frozen river.”

“How far?  Any more?  Only this?”

The Boy didn’t answer.  He went outside, and returned instantly, lugging in something brown and whitish, weather-stained, unwieldy.

“I dropped this at the door as I came along home.  Thought it might do for the collection.”

Mac stared with all his eyes, and hurriedly lit a candle.  The Boy dropped exhausted on a ragged bit of burlap by the bunks.  Mac knelt down opposite, pouring liberal libation of candle-grease on the uncouth, bony mass between them.

“Part of the skull!” he rasped out, masking his ecstasy as well as he could.