Breault, the third man, had regained his wind, and was listening to him.  One look at his dark, thin face told McKay that he was the wilderness man of the three.  He was staring at Jolly Roger in a strange sort of way.  And then, as if catching himself, he nodded, and began rubbing his frosted face with handfuls of snow.

Porter had thrown off his heavy coat, and was unpacking one of the dunnage sacks.  He and the girl seemed to have suffered less than the other two.  Jo, the girl, was looking at him.  And then her eyes turned to Jolly Roger.  They were large, fine eyes, wide open and clear now.  There was something of splendid strength about her as she smiled at McKay.  She was not of the hysterical sort.  He could see that.

“If we could have some hot soup,” she suggested.  “May we?”

There was gratitude in her eyes, which she made no attempt to express in words.  Jolly Roger liked her.  And Peter crept up behind her, and watched her as she followed Breault’s example, and rubbed the cheeks of the bearded man with snow.

“There’s an alcohol stove in the other pack,” said Breault, with his hard, narrow eyes fixed steadily on Jolly Roger’s face.  “By the way, what did you say your name was?”

“Cummings—­John Cummings.”

Breault made no answer.  During the next half hour Jolly Roger felt stealing over him a growing sense of uneasiness.  They drank soup and ate bannock.  It grew warm, and the girl threw off the heavy fur garment that enveloped her.  Color returned into her cheeks.  Her eyes were bright, and in her voice was a tremble of happiness at finding warmth and life where she had expected death.  Porter’s friendliness was almost brotherly.  He explained what had happened.  Two rascally Chippewyans had deserted them, stealing off into darkness and storm with both dog teams and one of their sledges.  After that they had fought on, seeking for a drift into which they might dig a refuge.  But the Barren was as smooth as a table.  They had shouted, and Miss Tavish had screamed—­not because they expected to find assistance—­but on account of Tavish falling in the storm, and losing himself.  It was quite a joke, Porter thought, that Superintendent Tavish, one of the iron men of the service, should have given up the ghost so easily.

Tavish smiled grimly.  They were all in good humor, and happy, with the possible exception of Breault.  Not once did he laugh or smile.  Yet Jolly Roger noted that each time he spoke the others were specially attentive.  There was something repressive and mysterious about the man, and the girl would cut herself short in the middle of a laugh if he happened to speak, and the softness of her mouth would harden in an instant.  He understood the significance of her gladness, and of Porter’s, for twice he saw their hands come together, and their fingers entwine.  And in their eyes was something which they could not hide when they looked at each other.  But Breault puzzled him.  He did not know that Breault was the best man-hunter in “N” Division, which reached from Athabasca Landing to the Arctic Ocean, or that up and down the two thousand-mile stretch of the Three River Country he was known as Shingoos, the Ferret.