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Updated: June 15, 2025
He heard Colonel Ward bellow at some one who was evidently advancing toward the wangan. "Here you, Connick, where are you goin'?" "Just to pass a word with the lad," the man replied. "Have you got your knittin'?" squalled Ward sarcastically. "There's no call for you to go passin' talk around that wangan camp, Connick. You come away from it."
At a little distance was a small camp containing the stores, such as moccasins, larigans, leggings, flannel shirts and mittens, all for sale at double the prices ruling in the city and for Colonel Ward's profit. The woods name for this store is the "wangan camp." The hour was still too early for the few men left at Number 7 to be in from the cutting.
He heard the continuous rattle of tin dishes, the mellow rasp of axes on turning grindstones, the squeak of footsteps departing over the crisp snow and the squealing of the runners of sleds. And when all were gone, there was as yet only the faintest glimmering of the dawn against the window of the wangan camp. The engineer was up and dressed when the key rattled in the door.
We'll tie him on a moose sled, an' you start in an hour, whilst the men are still asleep. I'll break a window out of the wangan, an' on this crust there'll be no foot-tracks. It'll be thought he broke out and ran away an' that'll be his own lookout." His voice became low and husky.
Only the cook and his helper, "the cookee," were at the camp. The cook came out and advanced to meet the new arrivals, having been attracted from his kettles and pans by the view-halloo they sent down from the hilltop. "Colonel left word to lock him in the wangan," reported the cook, rolling his bare arms more tightly in his dingy apron. "Where is the colonel?" asked Connick.
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