He had on
great sea boots that stood sadly in need of mending, and was clad in
heavy woollens, faded and worn, that showed many a rent and patch. As
he leaned on the stout staff that had assisted him in climbing, his
figure seemed bent as though by age, but when he lifted his, face,
tanned brown by long exposure, the downy moustache on his upper lip
proclaimed his youth. Altogether the change in his appearance was so
great that his most intimate friend would hardly have recognised in him
the youth who had been called the best dressed man in the T. I. class
of '99 a few months earlier. But the voice with which he finally broke
the silence of his long reverie was unmistakably that of Cabot Grant.
[Illustration: A solitary figure stood on the crest of a bald headland.]
"Heigh ho!" he sighed, as he cast a sweeping glance over the widespread
waste of waters on which nothing floated save a few belated icebergs,
and then inland over weary miles of desolate upland barrens, treeless,
moss-covered, and painfully rugged. "It is tough luck to be shut up
here like birds in a cage, with no chance of the door being opened
before next summer. It is tougher on Baldwin, though, than on me, and
if he can stand it I guess I can. But I suppose I might as well be
getting back or he will be worrying about me."
Thus saying, Cabot picked up a canvas bag that lay at his feet and
moved slowly away.
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