Scotty and I had been doing some
exploration work for the government, and for more than six months we
hadn't seen a real white man who looked like home.
We came in late at night, and the factor gave us a room in his house.
When we looked out of our window in the morning, we saw a little shack
about a hundred feet away, and in front of that shack was Thornton, only
half dressed, stretching himself in the sun, and LAUGHING. There wasn't
anything to laugh at, but we could see his teeth shining white, and he
grinned every minute while he went through a sort of setting-up exercise.
When you begin to analyze a man, there is always some one human trait
that rises above all others, and that laugh was Thornton's. Even the
wolfish sledge-dogs at the post would wag their tails when they heard it.
We soon established friendly relations, but I could not get very far
beyond the laugh. Indeed, Thornton was a mystery. DeBar, the factor, said
that he had dropped into the post six months before, with a pack on his
back and a rifle over his shoulder. He had no business, apparently. He
was not a propectory and it was only now and then that he used his rifle,
and then only to shoot at marks.
One thing puzzled DeBar more than all else. Thornton worked like three
men about the post, cutting winter fire-wood, helping to catch and clean
the tons of whitefish which were stored away for the dogs in the
company's ice-houses, and doing other things without end.
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