“It is a tempting offer to a hungry man, Father.”

The Little Missioner chuckled elatedly.

“Hunger!—­that’s the real medicine of the gods, David, when the belt isn’t drawn too tight.  If I want to know the nature and quality of a man I ask about his stomach.  Did you ever know a man who loved to eat who wasn’t of a pretty decent sort?  Did you ever know of a man who loved pie—­who’d go out of his way to get pie—­that didn’t have a heart in him bigger than a pumpkin?  I guess you didn’t.  If a man’s got a good stomach he isn’t a grouch, and he won’t stick a knife into your back; but if he eats from habit—­or necessity—­he isn’t a beautiful character in the eyes of nature, and there’s pretty sure to be a cog loose somewhere in his makeup.  I’m a grub-scientist, David.  I warn you of that before we get off at Thoreau’s.  I love to eat, and the Frenchman knows it.  That’s why I can smell things in that cabin, forty miles away.”

He was rubbing his hands briskly and his face radiated such joyous anticipation as he talked that David unconsciously felt the spirit of his enthusiasm.  He had gripped one of Father Roland’s hands and was pumping it up and down almost before he realized what he was doing.

“I’ll get off with you at Thoreau’s,” he exclaimed, “and later, if I feel as I do now, and you still want my company, I’ll go on with you into the north country!”

A slight flush rose into his thin cheeks and his eyes shone with a freshly lighted enthusiasm.  As Father Roland saw the change in him his hands closed over David’s.

“I knew you had a splendid stomach in you from the moment you finished telling me about the woman,” he cried exultantly.  “I knew it, David.  And I do want your company—­I want it as I never wanted the company of another man!”

“That is the strange part of it,” replied David, a slight quiver in his voice.  He drew away his hands suddenly and with a jerk brought himself to his feet.  “Good God! look at me!” he cried.  “I am a wreck, physically.  It would be a lie if you told me I am not.  See these hands—­these arms!  I’m down and out.  I’m weak as a dog, and the stomach you speak of is a myth.  I haven’t eaten a square meal in a year.  Why do you want me as a companion?  Why do you think it would be a pleasure for you to drag a decrepit misfit like myself up into a country like yours?  Is it because of your—­your code of faith?  Is it because you think you may save a soul?”

He was breathing deeply.  As he excoriated himself and bared his weakness the hot blood crept slowly into his face.

“Why do you want me to go?” he demanded.  “Why don’t you ask some man with red blood in his veins and a heart that hasn’t been burned out?  Why have you asked me?”

Father Roland made as if to speak, and then caught himself.  Again for a passing flash there came that mysterious change in him, a sudden dying out of the enthusiasm in his eyes, and a grayness in his face that came and went like a shadow of pain.  In another moment he was saying: