The short northern day was nearing an end when once more they saw the
broad Saskatchewan twisting through a plain below them, and on its
southern shore the few log buildings of Le Pas hemmed in on three sides
by the black forests of balsam and spruce. Lights were burning in the
cabins and in the Hudson Bay Post's store when the car was brought to a
halt half a hundred paces from a squat, log-built structure, which was
more brilliantly illuminated than any of the others.
"That's the hotel," said one of the men. "Gregson's there."
A tall, fur-clad figure hurried forth to meet Howland as he walked
briskly across the open. It was Gregson. As the two men gripped hands
the young engineer stared at the other in astonishment. This was not
the Gregson he had known in the Chicago office, round-faced, full of
life, as active as a cricket.
"Never so glad to see any one in my life, Howland!" he cried, shaking
the other's hand again and again. "Another month and I'd be dead. Isn't
this a hell of a country?"
"I'm falling more in love with it at every breath, Gregson. What's the
matter? Have you been sick?"
Gregson laughed as they turned toward the lighted building. It was a
short, nervous laugh, and with it he gave a curious sidewise glance at
his companion's face.
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