Then the wind is in our hair, and thatched cots race off in a blur on
either side; plodding workmen stand to stare and are gone; open fields
give place to forest, forest to village, village to bare heath; and
still we race on.

* * * * * *

Midnight found us pounding through the dark of London streets for
Cheapside, where lived Mr. Young, a director of the Hudson's Bay
Company, who was favourable to Pierre Radisson.

"Halloo! Halloo!" shouts Radisson, beating his pistol-butt on the door.

A candle and a nightcap emerge from the upper window.

"Who's there?" demands a voice.

"It's Radisson, Mr. Young!"

"Radisson! In the name o' the fiends--where from?"

"Oh, we've just run across the way from Hudson Bay!" says Radisson.

And the good man presently appears at the door with a candle in one
hand and a bludgeon in the other.

"In the name o' the fiends, when did you arrive, man?" exclaims Mr.
Young, hailing us inside.