“Stir your stumps, Jimmie,” said the Colonel, “and get us a bucket of water.”  Sleepily O’Flynn gave it as his opinion that he’d be damned if he did.

With unheard-of alacrity, “I’ll go,” said Potts.

The Colonel stared at him, and, by some trick of the brain, he had a vision of Potts listening at the door the night before, and then resuming that clinking, scratching sound in the corner—­the store corner.

“Hand me over my parki, will you?” Potts said to the Boy.  He pulled it over his head, picked up the bucket, and went out.

“Seems kind o’ restless, don’t he?”

“Yes.  Colonel—­”

“Hey?”

“Nothin’.”

Ten minutes—­a quarter of an hour went by.

“Funny Mac don’t come for his dinner, isn’t it?  S’pose I go and look ’em up?”

“S’pose you do.”

Not far from the door he met Mac coming in.

“Well?” said the Boy, meaning, Where’s the kid?

“Well?” Mac echoed defiantly.  “I lammed him, as I’d have lammed Robert Bruce if he’d lied to me.”

The Boy stared at this sudden incursion into history, but all he said was:  “Your dinner’s waitin’.”

The minute Mac got inside he looked round hungrily for the child.  Not seeing him, he went over and scrutinised the tumbled contents of the bunks.

“Where’s Kaviak?”

“P’raps you’ll tell us.”

“You mean he isn’t here?” Mac wheeled round sharply.

“Here?”

“He didn’t come back here for his dinner?”

“Haven’t seen him since you took him out.”  Mac made for the door.  The Boy followed.

“Kaviak!” each called in turn.  It was quite light enough to see if he were anywhere about, although the watery sun had sunk full half an hour before.  The fantastically huge full-moon hung like a copper shield on a steel-blue wall.

“Do you see anything?” whispered Mac.

“No.”

“Who’s that yonder?”

“Potts gettin’ water.”

The Boy was bending down looking for tracks.  Mac looked, too, but ineffectually, feverishly.

“Isn’t Potts calling?”

“I knew he would if he saw us.  He’s never carried a bucket uphill yet without help.  See, there are the Kid’s tracks going.  We must find some turned the other way.”

They were near the Little Cabin now.

“Here!” shouted the Boy; “and ... yes, here again!” And so it was.  Clean and neatly printed in the last light snowfall showed the little footprints.  “We’re on the right trail now.  Kaviak!”

Through his parki the Boy felt a hand close vise-like on his shoulder, and a voice, not like MacCann’s: 

“Goin’ straight down to the fish-trap hole!”

The two dashed forward, down the steep hill, the Boy saying breathless as they went:  “And Potts—­where’s Potts?”

He had vanished, but there was no time to consider how or where.