For a long time after this the shadow of death hung over the
Frenchman's trapping-shack. To Boileau, with his brotherly
sympathy and regret that his poison-bait had brought calamity,
Peter was "just dog." But when at last he saw the strong shoulders
of the grim-faced stranger shaking over Peter's paralyzed body and
listened to the sobbing grief that broke in passionate protest
from his white lips, he drew back a little awed. It seemed for a
time that Peter was dead; and in those moments Jolly Roger put his
arms about him and buried his despairing face in Peter's scraggly
neck, calling in a wild fit of anguish for him to come back, to
live, to open his eyes again. Boileau, crossing himself, felt of
Peter's body and McKay heard his voice over him, saying that the
dog was not dead, but that his heart was beating steadily and that
he thought the last stiffening blow of the poison was over. To
McKay it was like bringing the dead back to life. He raised his
head and drew away his arms and knelt beside the bunk stunned and
mutely hopeful while Boileau took his place and began dropping
warm condensed milk down Peter's throat. In a little while Peter's
eyes opened and he gave a great sigh.
Boileau looked up and shrugged his shoulders.
"That was a good breath, m'sieu," he said. "What is left of the
poison has done its worst.
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