months had elapsed since the mysterious college-boy had passed on north with his dog-team.
Many things could have happened to him in those months. As Marion sat looking away at the vast expanse of drifting ice which had been restless in its movements of late, telling of the coming of the spring break-up, she wondered what had happened to the frank-eyed, friendly boy. He had not returned. Had a blizzard caught him and snatched his life away? The rivers were overflowing their banks now, though thick and rotten ice was still beneath the milky water. Had he completed his mission North, and was he now struggling to make his way southward? Or was he securely housed in some out-of-the-way cabin waiting for open water and a schooner?
A letter had come—a letter in a blue envelop and addressed, as was the other, to Phi Beta Chi. That was after Lucile's return. Lucile had been back for a month now. The two girls had laughed and wondered about that letter. They had put it in the pigeonhole, and there it now was. But Marion had not forgotten her promise to take it with her in case the boy did not return before she left the cape.
As she sat dreaming there in the spring sunshine she started suddenly. Something had touched her foot.
"Oh!" she exclaimed, then laughed.
The most forlorn-looking dog she had ever seen had touched her shoe with his nose. His hair was ragged and matted, and his bones protruded at every possible point. His mouth was set awry, one side hanging half open.
"So!" she said, "it's you; you're looking worse than common."
The dog opened his mouth, allowing his long tongue to loll out.
"I suppose that means you're hungry. Well, for once you are in luck. The natives caught a hundred or more salmon through the ice. I have some of them. Fish, old top! Fish! What say?"
The dog stood on his hind legs and barked for joy. He read the sign in her eyes, if he did not understand her lip message. In an other moment he was gulping down a fat, four-pound salmon, while Marion eyed him, a curious questioning look on her face.
"Now," she said, as the dog finished, "the question is, what are we going to do with you? You're an old dog. You're no good in a team—too old; bad feet. No, sir, you can't be any good, or you wouldn't be back here in five days. We gave you to Tommy Illayok to lead his team. You were a leader in your day, all right, and you'd lead 'em yet if you could, poor old soul!" There was a catch in her voice. To her, dogs were next to humans. In the North they were necessary servants as well as friends.
"The thing that makes it hard to turn you out," she went on huskily, "is the fact that you're a white man's dog. Yes, sir! A white man's dog. And that means an awful lot—means you'd stick till death to any white person who'd feed you and call you friend. Jack London has written a book about a white man's dog that turned wild and joined a wolf-pack. It's a wonderful book, but I don't believe it. A white man's dog wants a white man for a friend; and if he loses one, he'll keep traveling until he finds another. That's the way a white man's dog is, and that's why you come back to us." She stooped and patted the shaggy head.
"I'll tell you what," she murmured, after a moment's reflection; "if the fish keep running, if the wild ducks come north, or the walrus come barking in from Bering Sea, then you can stay with us and get sleek and fat. You can sleep by our door in the hallway every night; and if any one comes prowling around, you can ask them what they want. How's that?"
The dog howled his approval.
Marion smiled, and, turning, went into the cabin. The dog, evidently an old and decrepit leader, deserted by a faithless master, had adopted their cabin as his foster home.
She had hardly entered the small building when she heard a growl from the dog, followed by the voice of a stranger.
"Down, Rover!" she shouted, as she sprang to the door.
The man who stood before her was badly dressed and unshaven. His eyes bore a shifty gleam.
"Get out, you cur!" He kicked at the dog with his heavy boot.
Marion's eyes flashed, but she said nothing.
"This the post-office?"
"Yes."
"'s there a letter here for me?"
"1 don't know," she smiled. "Won't you come in?"
The man came inside.
"Now," she said, "I'll see. What is your name?"
"Ben—" he hesitated; "oh—that don't matter. Won't be addressed to my name. Addressed like that."
He drew from his pocket a closely folded, dirt-begrimed envelop.