When he slipped the shoes off and stood them up beside his rifle against the cabin, he was panting.

His heart was pounding.

His lungs drank in the cold, balsam-scented air like a suction pump and expelled each breath with the sibilancy of steam escaping from a valve.
"Winded!" he gasped.

And then, gulping for breath as he looked at Father Roland, he demanded: "How the devil am I going to keep up with you fellows on the trail?
I'll go bust inside of a mile!" "And every time you go bust we'll load you on the sledge," comforted the Missioner, his round face glowing with enthusiastic approval.

"You've done finely, David.