She waved her arms madly and mingled her voice with Poleon's until a
black-robed figure appeared beside the pilot-house.

"Father Barnum!" she screamed, and, recognizing her, he signalled
back.

Soon they were alongside, and a pair of Siwash deckhands lifted
Necia aboard, Doret following after, the painter of the Peterborough
in his teeth. He dragged both canoes out of the boiling tide, and
laid them bottom up on the forward deck, then climbed the narrow
little stairs to find Necia in the arms of a benignant, white-haired
priest, the best-beloved man on the Yukon, who broke away from the
girl to greet the Frenchman, his kind face alight with astonishment.

"What is all this I hear? Slowly, Doret, slowly! My little girl is
talking too furiously for these poor old wits to follow. I can't
understand; I am amazed. What is this tale?"

Together they told him, while his blue eyes now opened wide with
wonder, now grew soft with pity, then blazed with indignation. When
they had finished he laid his hand upon Doret's shoulder.

"My son, I thank God for your good body and your clean heart. You
saved our Necia, and you will be rewarded. As to this--this--man
Runnion, we must find him, and he must be sent out of the country;
this new, clean land of ours is no place for such as he. You will be
our pilot, Poleon, and guide us to the spot."

It required some pressure to persuade the Frenchman, but at last he
consented; and as the afternoon drew to a close the little steamboat