In some ways he was less trouble than if he had been able to see.  He was helpless and had to trust to them.  His safety depended on their safety.  He could not strike at them without injuring himself.  No matter how much he cringed at the thought of being dragged back to punishment, he shrank still more from the prospect of death in the snow wastes.  The situation galled him.  Every decent word he gave them came grudgingly, and he still snarled and complained and occasionally bullied as though he had the whip hand.

“A nice specimen of ursus horribilis,” Beresford murmured to his companion one day.  “Thought he was game, anyhow, but he’s a yellow quitter.  Acts as though we were to blame for his blindness and for what’s waiting for him at the end of the journey.  I like a man to stand the gaff when it’s prodding him.”

Morse nodded.  “Look out for him.  I’ve got a notion in the back o’ my head that he’s beginning to see again.  He’d kill us in a holy minute if he dared.  Only his blindness keeps him from it.  What do you say?  Shall we handcuff him nights?”

“Not necessary,” the constable said.  “He can’t see a thing.  Watch him groping for that stick.”

“All his brains run to cunning.  Don’t forget that.  Why should he have to feel so long for that stick?  He laid it down himself a minute ago.  Tryin’ to slip one over on us maybe.”

The Canadian looked at the lean, brown face of his friend and grinned.  “I’ve a notion our imaginations too are getting a bit jumpy.  We’ve had one bully time on this trip—­with the reverse English.  It’s all in the day’s work to buck blizzards and starve and freeze, though I wouldn’t be surprised if our systems were pretty well fed up with grief before we caught Mr. Bully West.  Since then—­well, you couldn’t call him a cheerful traveling companion, could you?  A dozen times a day I want to rip loose and tell him how much I don’t think of him.”

“Still—­”

“We’ll keep an eye on him.  If necessary, it’ll be the bracelets for him.  I’d hate to have the Inspector send in a report to headquarters, ‘Constable Beresford missing in the line of duty.’  I’ve a prejudice against being shot in the back.”

“That’s one of the reasons I’m here—­to see you’re not if I can help it.”

Beresford’s boyish face lit up.  He understood what his friend meant.  “Say, Faraway isn’t New York or London or even Toronto.  But how’d you like to be sitting down to one of Jessie McRae’s suppers?  A bit of broiled venison done to a juicy turn, potatoes, turnips, hot biscuits spread with raspberry jam.  By jove, it makes the mouth water.”

“And a slice of plum puddin’ to top off with,” suggested Morse, bringing his own memory into play.  “Don’t ask me how I’d like it.  That’s a justifiable excuse for murder.  Get busy on that rubaboo.  Our guest’s howlin’ for his dinner.”

The faint suspicions of Morse made the officers more wary.  They watched their prisoner a little closer.  Neither of them quite believed that he was recovering his sight.  It was merely a possibility to be guarded against.