But this summer? Well, he was taken ill just about the time the ice went out of the bay—no, no, he was all right now. Mrs. Christianson had nursed him. Christianson didn’t know what Mar’s plans were—doubted if anybody did; though he was laying in supplies for some sort of excursion. He once had an idea of going all the way to Teller Station to see the Government reindeer. That was Mar’s stuff, there, in the boat. Of course it was little use now to go to the Klondike. Besides, what incentive had a man of that age to face the hardships of prospecting in the arctic? It was no matter if such a man had not great fortune. He wouldn’t know how to use it. He had not, Mr. Christianson was sorry to say it, but Mr. Mar had not the true light. From which Cheviot gathered that Mr. Mar had not contributed all he might to the cause of Righteousness. But it was a relief to know that he had not been in straits. “He seem to haf blenty to bay his bills”—so why had he come up there, caring neither for money nor for missions? Here Cheviot caught the momentary gleam in Björk’s little eyes. A question in them, but unspoken, like all else that went on in the close-cropped bullet head. Cheviot became aware that his old friend had somehow succeeded in making himself an object of intense curiosity to these queer folk. They liked Mr. Mar, though—Christianson tried to catch Björk’s eye, but the dark one declined confederacy—though Mr. Mar had done something a little while ago that made a great deal of trouble. “Hein? Veil, it vas like dis. Von of our great deeficoolty is de vitchcraftiness of de natives. Not a season go by vidout dey have to tie up some von.” He pursed his wrinkled lips and slowly shook his colorless locks. “Oh!” said Cheviot, feeling his way. “How long do they keep them tied up?” “Till dey confesses, or till dey dies.” There was need then of the missionary in this savage place, where Hildegarde’s father had had to spend a year of his life. “And if they confess, it’s all right, is it?” asked Cheviot. “If dey confess, and if dey go and get a piece of de fur, or vhatever it is, dat dey’ve cut off de clo’es of de person dey been vitching, and if dey give it back, and promise ‘never again.’” “And then they’re forgiven?” “Yes. Sometimes dey’re stoned, sometimes dey’re yoost spit at and den let to vander avay—but dey’re forgiven.” “Oh, like that? Well, I wonder they trouble to confess.” “Dey like it better dan to be dead.” “Dead?” “Burnt.” “Really? They went as far as that? But now, you mission people, I suppose, have put a stop to such goings on!” “Ve are not greater at Kwimkuk dan Saul at Endor.” Cheviot stared.