David asked no more questions.  He turned his attention entirely to his fish.  In that same moment there came an outburst from the foxes that made Thoreau grin.  Their yapping rose until it was a clamorous demand.  Then the dogs joined in.  To David it seemed as though there must be a thousand foxes out in the Frenchman’s pens, and at least a hundred dogs just beyond the cabin walls.  The sound was blood-curdling in a way.  He had heard nothing like it before in all his life; it almost made one shiver to think of going outside.  The chorus kept up for fully a minute.  Then it began to die out, and David could hear the chill clink of chains.  Through it all Thoreau was grinning.

“It’s two hours over feeding time for the foxes, and they know it, m’sieur,” he explained to David.  “Their outcry excites the huskies, and when the two go together—­Mon Dieu! it is enough to raise the dead.”  He pushed himself back from the table and rose to his feet.  “I am going to feed them now.  Would you like to see it, m’sieu?”

Father Roland answered for him.

“Give us ten minutes and we shall be ready,” he said, seizing David by the arm, and speaking to Thoreau.  “Come with me, David.  I have something waiting for you.”

They went into the Little Missioner’s room, and pointing to his tumbled bed, Father Roland said: 

“Now, David, strip!”

David had noticed with some concern the garments worn that morning by Father Roland and the Frenchman—­their thick woollen shirts, their strange-looking, heavy trousers that were met just below the knees by the tops of bulky German socks, turned over as he had worn his more fashionable hosiery in the college days when golf suits, bulldog pipes, and white terriers were the rage.  He had stared furtively at Thoreau’s great feet in their moose-hide moccasins, thinking of his own vici kids, the heaviest footwear he had brought with him.  The problem of outfitting was solved for him now, as he looked at the bed, and as Father Roland withdrew, rubbing his hands until they cracked, David began undressing.  In less than a quarter of an hour he was ready for the big outdoors.  When the Missioner returned to give him a first lesson in properly “stringing up” his moccasins, he brought with him a fur cap very similar to that worn by Thoreau.  He was amazed to find how perfectly it fitted.

“You see,” said Father Roland, pleased at David’s wonder, “I always take back a bale of this stuff with me, of different sizes; it comes in handy, you know.  And the cap....”

He chuckled as David surveyed as much as he could see of himself in a small mirror.

“The cap is Marie’s work,” he finished.  “She got the size from your hat and made it while we were asleep.  A fine fisher-coat that—­Thoreau’s best.  And a good fit, eh?”

“Marie ... did this ... for me?” demanded David.

The Missioner nodded.

“And the pay, Father....”