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Page 4
"Impossible!" gasped Keith. "Conniston, do you know what you are
saying?"
"Positively, old chap. I count every word, because it hurts when I
talk. So you won't argue with me, please. It's the biggest sporting
thing that's ever come my way. I'll be dead. You can bury me under this
floor, where the foxes can't get at me. But my name will go on living
and you'll wear my clothes back to civilization and tell McDowell how
you got your man and how he died up here with a frosted lung. As proof
of it you'll lug your own clothes down in a bundle along with any other
little identifying things you may have, and there's a sergeancy
waiting. McDowell promised it to you--if you got your man. Understand?
And McDowell hasn't seen me for two years and three months, so if I
MIGHT look a bit different to him, it would be natural, for you and I
have been on the rough edge of the world all that time. The jolly good
part of it all is that we look so much alike. I say the idea is
splendid!"
Conniston rose above the presence of death in the thrill of the great
gamble he was projecting. And Keith, whose heart was pounding like an
excited fist, saw in a flash the amazing audacity of the thing that was
in Conniston's mind, and felt the responsive thrill of its
possibilities. No one down there would recognize in him the John Keith
of four years ago. Then he was smooth-faced, with shoulders that
stooped a little and a body that was not too strong. Now he was an
animal! A four years' fight with the raw things of life had made him
that, and inch for inch he measured up with Conniston. And Conniston,
sitting opposite him, looked enough like him to be a twin brother. He
seemed to read the thought in Keith's mind. There was an amused glitter
in his eyes.
"I suppose it's largely because of the hair on our faces," he said.
"You know a beard can cover a multitude of physical sins--and
differences, old chap. I wore mine two years before I started out after
you, vandyked rather carefully, you understand, so you'd better not use
a razor. Physically you won't run a ghost of a chance of being caught.
You'll look the part. The real fun is coming in other ways. In the next
twenty-four hours you've got to learn by heart the history of Derwent
Conniston from the day he joined the Royal Mounted. We won't go back
further than that, for it wouldn't interest you, and ancient history
won't turn up to trouble you. Your biggest danger will be with
McDowell, commanding F Division at Prince Albert. He's a human fox of
the old military school, mustaches and all, and he can see through
boiler-plate. But he's got a big heart. He has been a good friend of
mine, so along with Derwent Conniston's story you've got to load up
with a lot about McDowell, too. There are many things--OH, GOD--"
He flung a hand to his chest. Grim horror settled in the little cabin
as the cough convulsed him. And over it the wind shrieked again,
swallowing up the yapping of the foxes and the rumble of the ice.
That night, in the yellow sputter of the seal-oil lamp, the fight
began. Grim-faced--one realizing the nearness of death and struggling
to hold it back, the other praying for time--two men went through the
amazing process of trading their identities. From the beginning it was
Conniston's fight. And Keith, looking at him, knew that in this last
mighty effort to die game the Englishman was narrowing the slight
margin of hours ahead of him. Keith had loved but one man, his father.
In this fight he learned to love another, Conniston. And once he cried
out bitterly that it was unfair, that Conniston should live and he
should die. The dying Englishman smiled and laid a hand on his, and
Keith felt that the hand was damp with a cold sweat.
Through the terrible hours that followed Keith felt the strength and
courage of the dying man becoming slowly a part of himself. The thing
was epic. Conniston, throttling his own agony, was magnificent. And
Keith felt his warped and despairing soul swelling with a new life and
a new hope, and he was thrilled by the thought of what he must do to
live up to the mark of the Englishman. Conniston's story was of the
important things first. It began with his acquaintance with McDowell.
And then, between the paroxysms that stained his lips red, he filled in
with incident and smiled wanly as he told how McDowell had sworn him to
secrecy once in the matter of an incident which the chief did not want
the barracks to know--and laugh over. A very sensitive man in some ways
was McDowell! At the end of the first hour Keith stood up in the middle
of the floor, and with his arms resting on the table and his shoulders
sagging Conniston put him through the drill. After that he gave Keith
his worn Service Manual and commanded him to study while he rested.
Keith helped him to his bunk, and for a time after that tried to read
the Service book. But his eyes blurred, and his brain refused to obey.
The agony in the Englishman's low breathing oppressed him with a
physical pain. Keith felt himself choking and rose at last from the
table and went out into the gray, ghostly twilight of the night.
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