mouth gave a little gasp. A man pacing back and forth in the aisle
stopped as if at the point of a bayonet.

It came again.

The heavy-jowled man who had taken the adventure as a jest at first, and
who had rolled himself in his great coat like a hibernating woodchuck,
unloosed his voice in a rumble of joy.

"It's the whistle!" he announced. "The damned thing's coming at last!"




CHAPTER III


David came up quietly to the door of the smoking compartment where he
had left Father Roland. The Little Missioner was huddled in his corner
near the window. His head hung heavily forward and the shadows of his
black Stetson concealed his face. He was apparently asleep. His hands,
with their strangely developed joints and fingers, lay loosely upon his
knees. For fully half a minute David looked at him without moving or
making a sound, and as he looked, something warm and living seemed to
reach out from the lonely figure of the wilderness preacher that filled
him with a strangely new feeling of companionship. Again he made no
effort to analyze the change in himself; he accepted it as one of the
two or three inexplicable phenomena this night and the storm had
produced for him, and was chiefly concerned in the fact that he was no
longer oppressed by that torment of aloneness which had been a part of