Missions always shot as blindly at a distant mark. It would take him a
year to learn the first smatterings of their tongue. A year! He had
understood that the Lone Moose Crees were partly under civilized
influences. Certainly he had believed that his predecessors in the field
had laid some sort of foundation for the work he was to carry on. It was
considered a matter of course that the mission quarters were livable,
that some sort of meeting place had been provided.

There was a monetary basis for that belief. Some two thousand dollars
had been expended, or perhaps the better word would be appropriated, for
that purpose. Mr. Thompson could not quite understand what had become of
this sum. There was nothing but a rat-ridden shack on a half-cleared
acre in the edge of the forest. There had never been anything else.
Nothing had been accomplished. Thompson shook his head again. His first
report would be a shock to the Board of Home Missions.

He bore straight for Sam Carr's house. While still some distance away he
made out two men seated on the porch. As he drew nearer a couple of
nondescript dogs rushed noisily to meet him. Thompson's general
unfamiliarity with the outdoor world extended to dogs. But he had heard
sometime, somewhere, that it was well to put on a bold front with
barking curs. He acted upon this theory, and the dogs kept their teeth
out of his person, though their clamor rose unabated until one of the
men harshly commanded them to be quiet. Thompson came up to the steps.
The two men nodded. Their eyes rested upon him in frank curiosity.

"My name is Thompson." His diffidence, verging upon forthright
embarrassment, precipitated him into abruptness. He was addressing the
older man, a spare-built man with a trim gray beard and a disconcerting
direct gaze. "I am a newcomer to this place. The factor of Fort Pachugan