Tempest did not know of this until the last of those four days, when Depache and Myers were swimming in the litthe lake that lipped the knees of the sparse trees with so different a sound from the thunder of the Slave, and Dick, in the smoke of the mosquito-smudge, was mending a tear in his tunic by button-clips and talking idle animal-talk to the splint-legged dog at his elbow. Tempest came out of his tent, and looked round.
"Where are the men?" he asked.
"Swimming," said Dick, and did not look up.
"Was that little black leather case of mine put into your tent? It came up in the last packs to-day."
"Yes. I chucked it down with the dunnage somewhere."
Dick stood up to go to his tent, and Tempest stopped him.
"I can get it," he said. "Tell me where it is."
"Thank you," said Dick dryly. "I prefer to overhaul my personal belongings myself."
Tempest flushed, biting his lips. But his eyes followed the man into the second tent, and when Dick brought the case it was not of it that Tempest spoke.
"What have you been doing to your feet?" he asked.
"Nothing." Dick took up his work and sat down again.
"You'll be good enough to answer me more civilly," said Tempest, and for a moment his voice shook. "What is wrong with your feet?"
"I burnt them portaging." Dick looked up. "When I cry out it will be time enough for you to fuss over me."
Tempest understood all that look and words meant. They angered him.
"I should have imagined you knew enough by now to take care of your feet," he said sharply.
Dick sought among the odds and ends of the fishing line, buttons, floats, oiled rags and other things that were stuffed into a battered little embroidered silk bag made for him years since by some girl whose name he had forgotten. He had carried that bag for sentimental reason at first. Later on it had become a familiar. Now it was about the one thing which might be said to represent home to him. Other things passed and were replaced; but the little faded bag
