Also he
objected to grains of sand and particles of ash and charred wood being
incorporated with bread and meat. Neither Breyette nor MacDonald seemed
to mind. But Thompson had never learned to adapt himself to conditions
that were unavoidable. Pitchforked into a comparatively primitive mode
of existence and transportation his first reaction to it took the form
of offended resentment. There were times when he forgot why he was
there, enduring these things. After such a lapse he prayed for guidance
and a patient heart.
These creature comforts now at hand were in a measure what he had been
accustomed to, what he had, with no thought on the matter, taken as the
accepted and usual order of things, save that his needs had been
administered by two prim and elderly spinster aunts instead of a
black-browed Scotchman and a half-breed servant girl.
Thompson sat back after his supper, fanning himself with an ancient
newspaper, for the day's heat still lingered. Across the table on which
he rested an elbow MacLeod, bearded, aggressive, capable, regarded his
guest with half-contemptuous pity under cover of the gathering dusk.
MacLeod smoked a pipe. Thompson chewed the cud of reflection.
"And so," the factor began suddenly, "ye are a missionary to the Lone
Moose Crees.
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