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But Oi'd cross hell on thin ice in July to folly a McKim wanst more, an' if to do ut Oi must cook f'r Appleton's camp, thin so ut is. Git ye some shleep now whilst Oi loaf down to Burrage's." When Bill awoke, yellow lamplight flooded the room and Daddy Dunnigan was busy about the stove, from the direction of which came a cheerful sizzling and the appetizing odor of frying meat and strong coffee.
The twilight of late autumn darkened the landscape as Bill Carmody found himself once again at the edge of the tiny clearing surrounding the cabin of Daddy Dunnigan. Through the window, in the yellow lamplight of the interior, he could see the form of the old man as he hobbled back and forth between the stove and the table.
"Good morning!" called Bill with just a shade of embarrassment. "Good marnin' yersilf!" grinned the other, a twinkle in his little eyes. "May I ask where I will find a man called Daddy Dunnigan?" "In about foive minutes ye'll foind um atein' breakfust wid a shtrappin' young hearty wid a sore fut. Come an in.
Not only had he made the trip without mishap, but accomplished the seemingly impossible in persuading Daddy Dunnigan to cook for a log camp, when in all reason the old man should have scorned the proposition in a torrent of Irish profanity. Moncrossen dealt only in facts. Speculation as to cause and effect found no place in his mental economy. His plan had miscarried.
He thought how he had refused to drink with Daddy Dunnigan from the smeared and cloudy glass half-filled with the raw, rank liquor, across the surface of which had trailed the tobacco-stained mustaches of the half-dozen unkempt men.
"Moncrossen says there is a real one down there Daddy Dunnigan, he called him." "Sure, Dunnigan'll not come into th' woods. An' phy shud he? Wid money in th' bank, an' her majesty's Oi mane, his nibs's pension comin' in ivery month, an' his insides broke in to Hod Burrage's whisky phwat more c'd a man want?" "The boss thinks maybe he'll come. Anyway, I am going after him."
Appleton, who had offered him the chance to make good; whole-hearted Fallon; devoted old Daddy Dunnigan; Stromberg, in whom was much to admire; Creed, the craven tool of Moncrossen; the boss himself, crooked, brutal, vicious; Blood River Jack, his friend; Wa-ha-ta-na-ta, the sinister old squaw, who believed all white men to be bad; and Jeanne, the beautiful, half-wild girl, within whose breast a great soul fluttered against the restraint of her environment.
Ut ain't rid war, but ut ain't so bad werwolves, Moncrossen, booze, Creed, a bit av a gir-rl somewheres, Shtromberg th' wor-rld is growin' bether afther all, an' Oi'm goin' to be in th' thick av ut!" Supper over, Bill donned mackinaw, cap, and mittens. "Phwere ye goin'?" asked Dunnigan. "To find Creed." "Wait a bit, 'tis early yit.
He paused and, receiving no answer, shot a crafty look at the man before him. "Now, if you was able," he went on, "you c'd take the tote-sled down to Hilarity an' fetch us a cook. It seems like that's the onliest way; there ain't nary 'nother man I c'n spare an' he's a good cook, old Daddy Dunnigan is, if he'll come.
Bill's visit to Hilarity was known to no one except Daddy Dunnigan, and the following evening after Moncrossen's departure for the woods, the two proceeded to the railway by a circuitous route. Unobserved, he swung aboard the caboose of the local freight-train which stood at the tiny platform, discharging goods.
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