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Suddenly he heard some one move inside. Then came the noise of sticks hitting a tin camp-stove and a sudden blaze flared up, burnt for a minute or two, and apparently went out again. Whoever it was must be ill, or hurt. He had no big billets or he wouldn’t be firing with twigs.

It could not do any harm now to enter, and Malcolm strode noisily to the door and peered inside.

A man’s weak voice greeted him. “Who’s there? For God’s sake, come in.”

“My name’s Malcolm McCrea. Where’s your light?”

“Haven’t got one. I’ve no candle either,” came the answer. “Had an accident three days ago with my gun, and nearly blew my foot off. My leg’s swelled up something wonderful.”

The voice, feeble almost to a whisper, conveyed no information as to the man’s identity, except that the Scotchman’s quick ear detected that there was resentment somehow mixed with satisfaction that a rescuer had come.

“I’ve a drop of kerosene in my nonny-bag,” was all Malcolm said, “but it’s scarce, and I ‘low I’ll cut up some wood and get t’ fire going before lighting up. You lie quiet for a minute or two and I’ll get you a drop of tea.”

“Lie quiet!” snarled the other. “I’ve lain quiet for three days, and expected to stay till doomsday. It’s no virtue keeps me lying quiet. I had no business to be here, anyhow, seeing there was no need of it.”

“Well, do as you please,” answered McCrea. And without much delay he soon had a roaring fire in the camp-stove which turned the chimney red-hot and made it possible to see dimly stretched out on a bed of fir boughs the long, thin form of a man whose drawn, unshaven face showed that he was suffering much pain. His right foot was swaddled in an ominously stained bundle of rags–evidently some torn-up garment.

Methodically lighting the bit of wick which he had placed in the kerosene bottle, Malcolm knelt down by the side of the injured man and, peering into the semi-darkness of the gloomy corner, found himself looking right into the eyes of Roderick Norman.

Having made some hot tea and shared it with the sick man, he offered him part of the pork and hard biscuit, all that he had with him for his own supper. But Roderick was too feeble to touch more than a bit of it soaked in hot tea, and that seemed a small strength-giver for such a time of need.

“If you’d a bit o’ wire or line, I’d tail a snare for a rabbit when the moon rises and try if we couldn’t get a drop o’ hot stew to help out. But I haven’t a bit in my bag.”

“There’s a couple o’ traps,” growled the sick man, and then stopped suddenly, shutting his jaws with a snap.

Malcolm looked around, but was unable to see any signs of them. “Where did you say they were?” he enquired; but no response came from the bunk.

McCrea finished his supper, lit his pipe, and suggested trying to wash the wounded foot. But fearing to start the bleeding again, they decided to leave it till morning.

“Where are those traps you spoke of, sir? The moon is beginning to show and I’ll be needing to get ’em put out, if we’re to have any chance.” But still the other man made no answer. Malcolm went up close to the bed and knelt down by him again. “Mr. Norman,” he said, “we’re in a bad hole here. We’re fifty miles from help, anyhow. We’ve no dogs and only one of us can walk. Moreover, there’s almost no food. If you’ve got any traps, why not tell me where they are. I’m not going to steal ’em.”

Roderick Norman opened his eyes and looked at him. The dim rays of the little wick in the kerosene bottle gave scarcely enough light to show the ordinary eye where the lamp itself was. But when their glances met, it was enough to show Roderick that it was no longer a child with whom he was dealing. For a second neither spoke, then Malcolm, putting his hand on the man’s shoulder, gripped it perhaps more roughly than he intended. “The traps,” he repeated.