lighted the lantern.  It seemed strange that the gale had ceased so suddenly, until, in looking about, he saw that he was in a hollow, and the wind was roaring above his head.  He was quite sheltered where he lay, but his brief gratitude for this gave way to horrified dismay when he discovered that the light, too, was sheltered—­that the ledge of earth and rock arose between him and the river bank, that he could never reach the dreaded danger spot with his warning light, and, near to it though he was, the flame was completely obscured from the sight of anyone crossing the ice.

For a moment the situation overwhelmed him.  He sat and shivered.  The agony of his injured foot was now asserting itself above the first numbness, and the realization that he was failing to warn the mill hands, that he was only a Jack o’ Lantern after all, seized on his young heart and brain like a torturing claw.  Despair settled down on him, blacker, more terrible than the coming night.  He fancied he could hear the mill hands crash through the death hole, and he called wildly, “Help!  Oh, somebody help me!” all the time knowing that the shanties were too far away for anyone there to hear, and that the footpath above him was too lonely for any chance lumberman to be taking at this hour.  No one ever passed that way but himself, and in the old days Andy and the grey—­oh, he had not thought of the grey—­where had the animal gone?  Instantly he whistled, called, whistled again, and over the ledge above his head looked a long, serious face, with great solemn eyes, and a soft, warm nose.  The very sight gave the boy courage, and at his next whistle the old horse carefully picked his way down the bank, and reaching down his long neck, felt Jacky’s shoulder with his velvety muzzle.

“Oh, Grey,” cried the boy, “you must help me.  You must do something, oh, something, to help!” Then he made an attempt to stand, to get on the animal’s back, but his poor foot gave out, and he huddled down to the ground again in pitiful, hopeless pain.  The horse’s nose touched his ear, starting him from a fast oncoming stupor.  At the same instant the six o’clock whistle blew at the mill across the frozen river.  In a few moments the men would be coming home, crossing the ice, perhaps to their death instead of to the warm supper awaiting them at their shanty homes.  The thought of it all gripped Jacky’s young heart with fear, but he was powerless to warn them.  He could not take a single step, and he was rapidly becoming paralyzed with cold and pain.  Once more the soft nose of the old horse touched his ear.  With the nearness of the warm, friendly nose, his quick wit returned.

“Grey!” he almost shouted, “Grey-Boy, do you think you could take the lantern?  Oh, Grey-Boy, help me think!  I’m getting so numb and sleepy.  Oh, couldn’t you carry it for me?” With an effort the boy struggled to his knees, and slipping his arms about the neck of his old chum, he cried, “Oh, Grey, I saved you once from dying at the logging camp.  They’d have killed you there.  Save the mill hands now just for me, Grey, just for Jack o’ Lantern, because I’m deceiving them at last.”