r with
only a few hundred yards of smooth water between. Stonor became a
fixture in the tracking-line. He worked with a right good will, hoping
to make himself so useful that they would not feel inclined to get rid
of him. It was a slim chance, but the best that offered at the moment.
Moreover, every mile that he put behind him brought him so much nearer
succour.

That night in camp he had the satisfaction of hearing Imbrie say in
answer to a question from the woman:

"No, not to-night. All day he's been working like a slave to try and get
on the good side of me. Well, let him work. I've no mind to break my
back while I have him to work for me. According to the Kakisas we'll
have rapids now for a long way up. Let him pull us."

So Stonor could allow himself to sleep with an easy mind for that night,
anyway.

The next two days were without special incident. Stonor lived from
moment to moment, his fate hanging on Imbrie's savage and irresponsible
impulses. Fortunately for him, he was still able to inform himself from
the talk of the two. Each day they broke camp, tracked up-stream,
tracked and poled up the rapids, spelled and tracked again. In the
rapids it was the breed woman who had to help Stonor. Imbrie would stand
by smoking, with his gun over his arm. Stonor wondered at the woman's
patience.

At the end of the second day they found another soft sandy beach to camp
on. Stonor was so weary he could scarcely remain awake long enough to
eat. They all turned in immediately afterwards. Latterly Imbrie had been
forcing Stonor to lie close to him at night, and the end of the line
that bound Stonor's wrists was tied around Imbrie's arm. The breed woman
lay on the other side of the fire, and Clare's tent was pitched beyond
her.

Stonor was awakened by a soft touch on his cheek. Having his nerves
under good control, he gave no start. Opening his eyes, he saw Clare's
face smiling adorably, not a foot from his own. At first he thought he
was dreaming, and lay scarcely daring to breathe, for fear of
dissipating the charming phantom.

But the phantom spoke: "Martin, you looked so tired to-night it made me
cry. I could not sleep. I had to come and speak to you. Did I do wrong?"

He feasted his tired eyes on her. How could he blame her? "Dangerous,"
he whispered. "These breeds sleep like cats."

"What's the difference? It's as bad as it can be already."

He shook his head. "They have not ill-treated you."

"I wouldn't