“What you goin’ to do with him?”

“Well, I hardly know.  The Sisters will look after him for a while, if I get him there alive.”

“Why shouldn’t you?”

Kaviak supplied the answer straightway by choking and falling into an appalling fit of coughing.

“I’ve got some stuff that’ll be good for that,” said Mac, thinking of his medicine-chest.  “I’ll give you some when we get back to camp.”

The priest nodded, taking Mac’s unheard of civility as a matter of course.

“The ice is very rough; the jolting makes him cough awfully.”

The Jesuit had fastened his eyes on Mac’s woollen muffler, which had been loosened during the ministering to Kaviak and had dropped on the ground.  “Do you need that scarf?” he asked, as though he suspected Mac of wearing it for show.  “Because if you didn’t you could wrap it round Kaviak while I help the men strike camp.”  And without waiting to see how his suggestion was received, he caught up the saucepan, lifted the flap, and vanished.

“Farva,” remarked Kaviak, fixing melancholy eyes on Mac.

“I ain’t your father,” muttered the gentleman so addressed.  He picked up his scarf and hung it round his own neck.

“Farva!” insisted Kaviak.  They looked at each other.

“You cold?  That it, hey?” Mac knelt down and pulled away the furs.  “God bless me! you only got this one rag on?  God bless me!” He pulled off his muffler and wound the child in it mummy-wise, round and round, muttering the while in a surly way.  When it was half done he stopped—­thought profoundly with a furrow cutting deep into his square forehead between the straight brows.  Slowly he pulled his gloves out of his pocket, and turned out from each beaver gauntlet an inner mitten of knitted wool.  “Here,” he said, and put both little moccasined feet into one of the capacious mittens.  Much pleased with his ingenuity, he went on winding the long scarf until the yellow little Esquimaux bore a certain whimsical resemblance to one of the adorable Delia Robbia infants.  But Mac’s sinewy hands were exerting a greater pressure than he realized.  The morsel made a remonstrant squeaking, and squirmed feebly.

“Oh, oh!  Too tight?  Beg your pardon,” said Mac hastily, as though not only English, but punctilious manners were understanded of Kaviak.  He relaxed the woollen bandage till the morsel lay contented again within its folds.

Nicholas came in for Kaviak, and for the furs, that he might pack them both in the Father’s sled.  Already the true son of the Church was undoing the ropes that lashed firm the canvas of the tent.

“Where’s the Boy?” said Mac suddenly.  “The young fellow that’s with us.  You know, the one that found you that first Sunday and brought you to camp.  Where is he?”

Nicholas paused an instant with Kaviak on his shoulder.

“Kaiomi—­no savvy.”

“You not seen him to-day?”