“It is bright—­almost like day—­outside,” he said a little yearningly.  “Are you—­tired?”

His hint was obvious, even to Mukoki, who stared at him from under his blanket.  And David was not tired.  If his afternoon’s work had fatigued him his exhaustion was forgotten in the mental excitement that had followed the Missioner’s story of Tavish.  He took a pair of the gloves in his hands, and nodded toward the door.

“You mean....”

Father Roland was on his feet.

“If you are not tired.  It would give us a better stomach for sleep.”

Mukoki rolled from his blanket, a grin on his leathery face.  He tied the wrist laces for them, and followed them out into the moonlit night, his face a copper-coloured gargoyle illuminated by that fixed and joyous grin.  David saw the look and wondered if it would change when he sent the Little Missioner bowling over in the snow, which he was quite sure to do, even if he was careful.  He was a splendid boxer.  In the days of his practice he had struck a terrific blow for his weight.  At the Athletic Club he had been noted for a subtle strategy and a cleverness of defence that were his own.  But he felt that he had grown rusty during the past year and a half.  This thought was in his mind when he tapped the Missioner on the end of his ruddy nose.  They squared away in the moonlight, eight inches deep in the snow, and there was a joyous and eager light in Father Roland’s eyes.  The tap on his nose did not dim it.  His teeth gleamed, even as David’s gloves went plunk, plunk, against his nose again.  Mukoki, still grinning like a carven thing, chuckled audibly.  David pranced carelessly about the Little Missioner, poking him beautifully as he offered suggestions and criticism.

“You should protect your nose, mon Pere”—­plunk!  “And the pit of your stomach”—­plunk!  “And also your ears”—­plunk, plunk!  “But especially your nose, mon Pere”—­plunk, plunk!

“And sometimes the tip of your jaw, David,” gurgled Father Roland, and for a few moments night closed in darkly about David.

When he came fully into his senses again he was sitting in the snow, with the Little Missioner bending over him anxiously, and Mukoki grinning down at him like a fiend.

“Dear Heaven, forgive me!” he heard Father Roland saying.  “I didn’t mean it so hard, David—­I didn’t!  But oh, man, it was such a chance—­such a beautiful chance!  And now I’ve spoiled it.  I’ve spoiled our fun.”

“Not unless you’re—­tired,” said David, getting up on his feet.  “You took me at a disadvantage, mon Pere.  I thought you were green.”

“And you were pulverizing my nose,” apologized Father Roland.