The Lachlans were worthy people enough, but—­He shook his head despondently.  As for the Crees—­well, he had been at Lone Moose less than forty-eight hours and he was wondering if the Board of Home Missions always shot as blindly at a distant mark.  It would take him a year to learn the first smatterings of their tongue.  A year!  He had understood that the Lone Moose Crees were partly under civilized influences.  Certainly he had believed that his predecessors in the field had laid some sort of foundation for the work he was to carry on.  It was considered a matter of course that the mission quarters were livable, that some sort of meeting place had been provided.

There was a monetary basis for that belief.  Some two thousand dollars had been expended, or perhaps the better word would be appropriated, for that purpose.  Mr. Thompson could not quite understand what had become of this sum.  There was nothing but a rat-ridden shack on a half-cleared acre in the edge of the forest.  There had never been anything else.  Nothing had been accomplished.  Thompson shook his head again.  His first report would be a shock to the Board of Home Missions.

He bore straight for Sam Carr’s house.  While still some distance away he made out two men seated on the porch.  As he drew nearer a couple of nondescript dogs rushed noisily to meet him.  Thompson’s general unfamiliarity with the outdoor world extended to dogs.  But he had heard sometime, somewhere, that it was well to put on a bold front with barking curs.  He acted upon this theory, and the dogs kept their teeth out of his person, though their clamor rose unabated until one of the men harshly commanded them to be quiet.  Thompson came up to the steps.  The two men nodded.  Their eyes rested upon him in frank curiosity.

“My name is Thompson.”  His diffidence, verging upon forthright embarrassment, precipitated him into abruptness.  He was addressing the older man, a spare-built man with a trim gray beard and a disconcerting direct gaze.  “I am a newcomer to this place.  The factor of Fort Pachugan spoke of a Mr. Carr here.  Have I—­er—­the—­ah—­pleasure of addressing that gentleman?”

Carr’s gray eyes twinkled, the myriad of fine creases radiating from their outer corners deepened.

“MacLeod mentioned me, eh?  Did he intimate that meeting me might prove a doubtful pleasure for a gentleman of your calling?”

That momentarily served to heighten Mr. Thompson’s embarrassment—­like a flank attack while he was in the act of waving a flag of truce.  But he perceived that there was no malice in the words, only a flash of ironic humor.  Carr chuckled dryly.

“Meet Mr. Tommy Ashe, Mr. Thompson,” he said.  “Mr. Ashe is, like yourself, a newcomer to Lone Moose.  You may be able to exchange mutual curses on the country.  People usually do at first.”

“I’ve been hereabouts six months,” Ashe smiled as he rose to shake hands. (Carr’s friendliness seemed a trifle negative, reserved; he had not offered his hand.)