The Sky Pilot had been hard at work for several months and the arduous labor had told on his unusual strength. He had taken cold through exposure, but the work was calling and he pushed on to the waiting camps. It was storming and the pack he was carrying grew heavier with every tired step. He thought that the exercise of the journey would in itself work a cure, but the pain increased and the wretchedness was accentuated by the cold. Drearily he plodded on, hoping that some tote-team would come that way and carry him to the camp, but no welcome conveyance appeared. Unable to proceed any further, he at last sat down in the drifted snow to rest. Through the cut over lands the cold wind swept its unobstructed way, chilling the sick man to the marrow. Off in the far north the tall Norways lifted their long arms to heaven, while the blasts of the wind waved them like the grain fields of the treeless prairie. Miles to the southward lay the habitations of men, and yonder in the hiding groves to the north was the camp he was hoping to reach. There was warmth there, and to the sick man the uninviting camp seemed a palace of comfort. If he could only reach the shacks, if he could reach the boys, that was all he asked. Gathering his remaining strength, he struggled to his feet and pressed slowly towards the goal. At last he entered the uncut timber where the strength of the blast was broken by the trees. On through the untrodden snow he tramped, bent with weariness, worn and pained, pressing on in spite of illness until the smoke of the cookshed showed itself above the hollow in which the buildings were located. There the lumberjacks found him and assisted him to the shelter of the camp, where they tenderly worked to warm and comfort the man who had so often stood between them and death. Everything that they could do for the missionary was gladly done, but they were limited by isolation and the minister was very sick. After supper the men in the bunkhouse discussed the situation: "The Sky Pilot's a pretty sick man," said the bull cook, "and we ought to do something to help the poor devil." This was rough but affectionate. "Whiskey's a good thing for one that's ailin'," suggested one. "Whiskey?" remarked another, "what's the use of talking about whiskey in this camp? You know that Sweeny's tongue has been hanging out for a week and that's proof there isn't a drop in the camp." Various remedies were suggested but they were not to be found. The men were discouraged in their helplessness. "We ought to do something for him," said a Christian sawyer, "we can't give him any medicine for we haven't it, but I'll tell you boys, we can pray for the man that is always praying for us."