erward that his face had been
frozen in a blizzard, years before, and his nose had split. This had
disfigured him--and the job had been done for life. His eyes were big
and pale blue, and his hair and eyebrows were a pale yellow. He was the
most silent man I ever saw. But Dinky-Dunk had already told me he was a
great worker, and a fine fellow at heart. And when Dinky-Dunk says he'd
trust a man, through thick and thin, there must be something good in
that man, no matter how bulbous his nose is or how scared-looking he
gets when a woman speaks to him. Olie looked more scared than ever when
Dinky-Dunk suddenly ran to where the train-conductor was standing beside
his car-steps, asked him to hold that "accommodation" for half a minute,
pulled his suit-case from under my pile of traps, and grabbed little me
in his arms.

"Quick," he said, "good-by! I've got to go on to Calgary. There's
trouble about my registrations."

I hung on to him for dear life. "You're not going to leave me here,
Dinky-Dunk, in the middle of this wilderness?" I cried out, while the
conductor and brakeman and station-agent all called and holloed and
clamored for Duncan to hurry.

"Olie will take you home, beloved," Dinky-Dunk tried to assure me.
"You'll be there by midnight, and I'll be back by Saturday evening!"

I began to bawl. "Don't go! Don't leave me!" I begged him. But the
conductor simply tore him out of my arms and pushed him aboard the
tail-end of the last car. I made a face at a fat man who was looking out
a window at me. I stood there, as the train started to move, feeling
that it was dragging my heart with it.

Then Dinky-Dunk called out to Olie, from the back platform: "Did you get
my message and paint that shack?" And Olie, with my steamer-rug in his
hand, only looked blank and called back "No." But I don't believe
Dinky-Dunk even heard him, for he was busy throwing kisses at me. I
stood there, at the edge of the platform, watching that lonely last
car-end fade down into the lonely sky-line. Then I mopped my eyes, took
one long quavery breath, and said out loud, as Birdalone Pebbley said
Shiner did when he was lying wounded on the field of Magersfontein:
"_Squealer, squealer, who's a squealer?_"

I found the big wagon-box filled with our things and Olie sitting there
waiting, viewing me with wordless yet respectful awe. Olie, in fact, has
never yet got used to me. He's a fine chap, in his rough and
inarticulate way, and there's noth