The warm, soft nose still snuggled against his ear.  The horse seemed actually to understand.  In a flash the boy determined to tie the lantern to the animal’s neck.  Then, in another flash, he realized that he had nothing with which to secure it there.  The horse had not an inch of halter or tie line on him.  An inspiration came to him like an answer to prayer, and within two seconds he acted upon it.  Ripping off his coat, he flung it over the horse’s neck, the sleeves hanging down beneath the animal’s throat.  Slipping one through the ring handle of the lantern, he knotted them together.  The horse lifted his head, and the lantern swung clear and brilliant almost under the soft, warm nostrils.

“Get up there, old Grey!  Get up!” shouted the boy desperately, “clicking” with his tongue the well-known sound to start a horse on the go.  “Get up!  And oh, Grey, go to the danger spot, nowhere else.  The danger spot, quick!  Get up!”

The animal turned, and slowly mounted the broken ledge of earth and rock.  Jacky watched with strained, aching eyes until the light disappeared over the bluff.  Then his agonized knees collapsed.  His shoulders, with no warmth except the thin shirt-sleeves to cover them, began to sting, then ache, then grow numb.  Once more he huddled into a limp little heap, and this time his eyes closed.

* * * * * * * *

“Do you know, father, I’m anxious about Jacky,” said Mrs. Moran, as they sat down to supper without the boy.  “He’s never come back since he started with the lantern, and it’s such an awful night.  I’m afraid something has happened to him.”

“Why, nothing could have happened,” answered Mr. Moran.  “The lantern was burning at the ‘death-hole’ all right as we crossed the ice.”

“Then why isn’t Jacky home long ago?” asked Mrs. Moran.  “He never goes to Andy’s at this hour.  He is always on time for supper.  I don’t like it, Tom, one bit.  The night is too bad for him not to have come directly home.  There, hear that wind.”  As she spoke the gale swept around the bend of the river, and the house rocked with the full force of the storm.

Tom Moran shoved back his chair, leaving his meal half finished.  “That’s so,” said he, a little anxiously, as he got into his heavy coat.  “I’ll go up shore and see.  Oh, there’s Alick now, and ‘Old Mack,’” as a thundering knock fell on the door.  “They said they were coming over after supper for a talk with me.”  Then, as the door burst open, and the big foreman, accompanied by “Old Mack,” shouldered their way into the room, Tom Moran added:  “Say, boys, the kid ain’t home, and his mother is getting nervous about him.  Will you two fellows take a turn around the bend with me to hunt him up?”

“What!” yelled the big foreman.  “Our little Jack o’ Lantern out in this blizzard?  You better believe we’ll go with you, Tom.  And what’s more, we’ll go right now.  Hustle up, boys.”  And Alick Duncan strode out again, with a frown of anxiety knitting his usually jovial face.