And Sergeant McKeever smiled down into the face of the small boy.
“Lucky—eh?” he said. “Well, son, luck’s a great thing—when it’s handled right.” And Connie Morgan wondered why the men of the North laughed.
“Where you headin’, kid? An’ where’s your folks?” asked the Sergeant.
“I haven’t got any. I”
“He’s Sam Morgan’s boy,” volunteered the man with the grizzled beard, “an’ Sam—he lays back yonder. He never had no luck—Sam didn’t.”
“No luck! With a kid like that!” The man who knew Black Jack Demaree snorted with disgust, and was interrupted by the officer of the Mounted:
“Sam Morgan!” he exclaimed. “You don’t mean big Sam Morgan, that used to prospect through here! The one that followed British Kronk clean through to Candle an’”
“That’s him! I was in Candle when he done it!”
Again the Sergeant turned to the small boy and the gruff voice lowered to softness:
“I know’d your daddy, kid. Folks called him
