Was it Black Jack, or someone even worse?
Forced to do something to brace his nerves, he puckered his stiffening lips and began whistling a tune he had led in his clear tenor every year of his life at the Home Christmas exercises.
"Who comes this way, so blithe and gay, Upon a merry Christmas day ?" His quick Irish wit roused to the ridiculousness of it until he broke into a laugh that steadied him amazingly.
Through the bushes he caught a glimpse of the oncoming figure.

His heart flooded with joy, for it was a man from the gang.

Wessner had been his bunk-mate the night he came down the corduroy.

He knew him as well as any of McLean's men.

This was no timber-thief.