Bob had brought with him the marten skins that he had trapped during his stay with the Indians and he exchanged them for a red shawl and a little box of beads for Manikawan, a trinket for the old woman, Manikawan’s mother, and a small gift each for Sishetakushin and Mookoomahn, besides some much needed clothing for himself.

These tokens of his gratitude he presented to the two Indians, who had indicated their intention of returning to the interior camp the next morning.  They had not fully realized until now that Bob was actually going to leave them and attempt to reach home with the Eskimos, and they protested vigorously against the plan.  Sishetakushin told him the Eskimos were bad people and would never guide him safely to his friends.  Indeed, he asserted, they might kill him when they had him alone with them.  On the other hand, the Indians were kind and true.  They had recognized his worth and had adopted him into the tribe.  With them he had been happy and with them he would be safe.  He could have his own wigwam and take Manikawan for his wife; and sometimes, if he wished, he could go to visit his people.

The failure of their arguments to impress Bob was a great disappointment to the Indians, and Bob, on his part, felt a keen sense of sorrow when, the following morning, he saw his benefactors go.  They had saved his life and had done all they could in their rude, primitive way for his comfort, and he appreciated their kindness and hospitality.

Ungava Bob, as every one at the Post called him, made himself generally useful about the fort and was soon quite at home in his new surroundings.  He cut wood and helped the Eskimo servants feed the dogs, and did any jobs that presented themselves and soon became a general favourite, not only with Mr. MacPherson but with the clerks and servants also.

His quarters with Sandy and Jamie seemed luxurious in contrast with the rough life of the interior to which he had so long been accustomed, and when the three gathered around the red hot stove those cold evenings after the day’s work was done and supper eaten, the Scotchmen held him enthralled with stories they told of their native land and the wonderful and magnificent things they had seen there.

Besides the factor and the two clerks these were the only white people at the Fort, and naturally they grew to be close companions.  The white men, too, were the only ones of the Post folk that could speak English, for the few Eskimos and Indians that lived on the reservation knew only their respective native tongue.

And so the time passed until, at last, the middle of March came, with its lengthening days and stormy weather, and Bob was beginning to fear that Mr. MacPherson had abandoned the project of sending him out with a mail, for nothing further had been said about his going since the conversation on the day of his arrival.  For two or three days he had been upon the lookout for a favourable opportunity to ask whether or not he was to go, and was thinking about it one Friday morning as he worked at the wood-pile, when “Secretary Bayard” hailed him: