The owl-like eyes stared at the slowly dying fire; hot tears trickled over the cavernous sockets and stopped in the unkempt beard.  Before he could answer there came a voice behind him: 

“Didn’t I tell ye so, son—­didn’t I tell ye ye could trust him?”

“I hope so, Hite,” returned Thayor—­“and you heard what I said about his getting to Canada, didn’t you?”

“Yes, I heard ye, Mr. Thayor.”  “And are you willing?”

“Yes.”

Thayor paused a moment, then he said thoughtfully:  “There is only one thing that worries me and that is how to get him clear of the woods and across the line.  Somebody must help.  The question is now whom can we trust?”

“That needn’t worry ye a mite,” answered the old man in a decided tone.  “He’s got all the help he wants.”

Thayor looked up.  “Who?” he asked in some surprise.

“Me and the old dog.  We’ll git him thar.”

THE END