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Updated: May 7, 2025
Desperately the Boy stirred the almost extinct embers with his foot, and a faint glow fell on the terror-frozen faces of the natives, fell on the bear-skin flap. It moved! A huge hand came stealing round. A hand? The skeleton of a hand white, ghastly, with fingers unimaginably long. No mortal in Pymeut had a hand like that no mortal in all the world! A crisp, smart sound, and a match blazed.
"Pymeut an' Holy Cross." "Holy Cross? Holy Moses! You?" "Yes; and do you know, one thing I saw there gave me a serious nervous shock." "That don't surprise me. What was it?" "Sheets. When I came to go to bed a real bed, Colonel, on legs I found I was expected to sleep between sheets, and I just about fainted." "That the only shock you had?" "No, I had several. I saw an angel.
When they slipped back their hoods it was seen that two of the men wore the "tartar tonsure," after the fashion of the coast. "Where do you come from?" inquired the Colonel of the man nearest him, who simply blinked and was dumb. "This is the one that talks English," said the Boy, indicating Nicholas, "and he lives at Pymeut, and he's been converted." "How far is Pymeut?"
Mac, with unimpaired gravity, took no notice of the huge satisfaction this particular remedy was giving his patient, except to say solemnly, "Don't bubble in it." The next course was fish a la Pymeut. "You're lucky to be able to get it," said the Father, whether with suspicion or not no man could tell. "I had to send back for some by a trader and couldn't get enough."
You can't tell." "Oh, yes." She spoke with unruffled serenity. "It will very likely be you the next time." The Boy took a brutal pleasure in presenting the hideous probability. "No," she returned unmoved. "Joe savvy I no marry Pymeut." The Boy stared, mystified by the lack of sequence. "Poor Anna doesn't want to marry that Pymeut." Muckluck nodded. The Boy gave her up.
The natives, who know the cards as we know our A B C's, were enthralled, and began to look upon Potts as a creature of more than mortal skill. Again the Boy pressed Nicholas to dance. "No, no;" and under his breath: "You come Pymeut."
"What's here?" the Boy shouted through the "mushing"; and he tugged at the goodly load, so neatly disposed under an old reindeer-skin sleeping-bag, and lashed down with raw hide. That? Oh, that was fish. "Fish! Got so much fish at starving Pymeut you can go hauling it down river? Well, sir, we want fish. We must have fish. Hey?" The Boy appealed to the others. "Yes." "R-right y'arre!"
"He's asked us all of us, and we're five up to visit him at Pymeut, the first village above us here." Mac took up a knife to cut the bacon. "And good gracious! why, I forgot the grouse; they can have the grouse!" "No, they can't," said Mac firmly; "they're lucky to get bacon." The Boy's face darkened ominously. When he looked like that the elder men found it was "healthiest to give him his head."
"That was the Weare we heard whistlin'," said the Boy, breathless. "And who d'you think's aboard?" "Who?" "Nicholas a' Pymeut, pilot. An' he's got Princess Muckluck along." "No," laughed the Colonel, following the Boy to the tent. "What's the Princess come for?" "How should I know?" "Didn't she say?" "Didn't stop to hear." "Reckon she was right glad to see you," chaffed the Colonel. "Hey?
Nicholas signified a remote destination with his whip. "B'lieve you! This kind o' thing would discourage even a mosquito." In the teeth of the blast they went past the Pymeut Summer Resort. Unlike Pymeut proper, its cabins were built entirely above ground, of logs unchinked, its roofs of watertight birch-bark.
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