“Then came the wonderful discovery:  these were not caribou, but reindeer escaped from some herd in Alaska.

“Right then I decided to capture and use them.  I would put them in pound until their rightful owners came for them, which would be never.”  He smiled.

“Well, I tried making a lasso of caribou skin.  For a long time I could not come near enough to reach them with the lasso.  But one night, while they rested, I crept up to them and my lasso caught one by the antlers.  Then there was a battle, and all the while I was thinking that now I should have milk, butter and cheese, meat and clothing.  And then there was a snap; the skin-rope broke and away went the reindeer—­and my hopes.

“I then hit on the plan of building a corral and driving them into it.  This was a pretty big job for one man, but with trees lining both sides of a narrow run, where the deer went to drink, I managed to weave willow branches into the spruce trees and make a stout barrier.  Well—­one morning, I found myself with six reindeer in pound—­a bull, three does, a yearling and an old sled-deer.  Not long after, the herd was increased by four fawns.

“By good luck, just at this time, the Indians came.  They were all for killing the reindeer, but I stopped that.  We fed, as I said before, on my caribou meat, and then came the wild-fowl and the streams opened up for fishing.

“It was fortunate that the Indians came.  They helped me to build corrals, big enough to give the reindeer plenty of pasturage and pretty soon they were fat and sleek.”

“Pardon me,” interrupted the Major, “but were some of the reindeer white?”

“Two of them were milk-white.  And now I have many of them running free in the forest.”

Barney grinned, and Bruce poked him in the ribs.  “My ghost,” he whispered.

“The wheat,” said the host, “was no great mystery, after all.  The bank cashier had put into the money-sack two samples of wheat and one of beans which he wanted to have tried in this north country.  I have tried them; with what luck, you can see.  I don’t need to fence my reindeer now, for in winter when the moss is buried deep under the snow I turn them in on stacks of wheat hay.  Finally when the Indians went back North the following winter they left me a wife, as you see.”  He smiled toward his dusky mate, who was industriously scouring a copper griddle.

There was silence for some time.  Then the Major spoke: 

“The thing that interests me is how you manage to keep up your standards of neatness and cleanliness.”

“It is not so hard,” said Timmie.  “I came of a good old Scotch family.  When I was a boy my mother taught me that ’cleanliness is next to godliness,’ and I made up my mind that—­well, that I would at least be clean.  That was all there was left for me to be, you know.”

“I think you may call yourself both,” said the Major stoutly.  “You have paid well for your mistake by twelve years of exile, and as for the money, we’ll take that back with us.”