The air was kind to his heated brow.  As he took the first few steps his costume troubled him.  He was wearing the parka and the corduroy trousers.  He felt no longer the slight tug of puttees about his ankles.  His trousers flapped against his legs at every step.  The hood heated the back of his neck.  The fur trousers and the skin boots were in the bundle under his arm.  His soldier’s uniform he had left with the keeper of the hidden clothes shop.  He hardly thought that anyone, save a very personal acquaintance, would recognize him in his new garb, and there was little chance of such a meeting at this hour of the night.  However, he gave three American officers, apparently returning from a late party of some sort, a wide berth, and dodging down a narrow street, made his way toward the railway yards where he would find the drowsy comforts of the caboose of the “Reindeer Special.”

* * * * *

“American, ain’t y’?” A sergeant of the United States army addressed this question to Johnny.

The latter was curled up half asleep in a corner of the caboose of the “Reindeer Special” which had been bumping over the rails for some time.

“Ya-a,” he yawned.

“Going north to trade, I s’pose?”

Johnny was tempted not to answer.  Still, he was not yet out of the woods.

“Yep,” he replied cheerfully.  “Red fox, white fox, mink, squirrel, ermine, muskrat.  Mighty good price.”

“Where’s your pack?” The sergeant half grinned.

Johnny sat up and stared.  No, it was not that he had had a pack and lost it.  It was that he had never had a pack.  And traders carried packs.  Why to be sure; things to trade for furs.

“Pack?” he said confusedly.  “Ah-er, yes.  Why, yes, my pack, of course, why I left it; no—­hang it!  Come to think of it, I’m getting that at the end of this line, Khabarask, you know.”

Johnny studied the old sergeant through narrowing eyelids.  He had given him a ten spot before the train rattled from the yards.  Was that enough?  Would any sum be enough?  Johnny shivered a little.  The man was an old regular, a veteran of many battles not given in histories.  Was he one of those who took this motto:  “Anything’s all right that you can get away with?” Johnny wondered.  It might be, just might be, that Johnny would go back on this same train to Vladivostok; and that, Johnny had no desire to do.

The sergeant’s eyes closed for a wink of sleep.  Johnny looked furtively about the car.  The three other occupants were asleep.  He drew a fat roll of American bills from his pocket.  From the very center he extracted a well worn one dollar bill.  Having replaced the roll, he smoothed out the “one spot” and examined it closely.  Across the face of it was a purple stamp.  In the circle of this stamp were the words, “Wales, Alaska.”  A smile spread over Johnny’s shrewd, young face.

“Yes sir, there you are, li’l ol’ one-case note,” he whispered.  “You come all the way from God’s country, from Alaska to Vladivostok, all by yourself.  I don’t know how many times you changed hands before you got here, but here you are, and it took you only four months to come.  Stay with me, little old bit of Uncle Sam’s treasure, and I’ll take you home; straight back to God’s country.”