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Ever since the Red River immigration Dr. Whitman had been uneasy. At a glance he had 'penetrated Sir George's design in the English race for occupation.

"What is Congress doing? Is the boundary settled? Will government extend its arm over us soon?" These and a thousand other queries fell from the lips of the energetic doctor. "Oregon don't count in politics so long's the nigger question's on the boards," answered one of the lawyers. "I believe Webster was talking of trading it for a codfishery when we left," he added by way of a joke.

Oregon was no joke to Dr. Whitman. Setting his lips firmly and looking the speaker in the eye "Do you think it possible for me to cross the mountains at this time of year, Mr. Lovejoy? "

"I think you can if you start immediately," replied the lawyer.

Again that studied, anxious look that had led Mrs. Whitman so often to say, "Marcus, you are a bundle of thoughts." He spoke again: "You see, Mr. Lovejoy, I have adopted Oregon as my country, the Indians as my field of labor. But there will be a great immigration next year. Some one must superintend it. There can never be any great influx of settlers to this country until they learn to bring their wagons. Such a wagon train, safely carried through, will lay the foundation for speedy settlement. If it fails, it will discourage any further attempt for years to come. Meanwhile, Oregon will be lost. My idea is to go back, meet these immigrants, pilot them through, and, if possible, go to Washington and present the needs of a military road across the continent. In that matter you could be of great help to me. Will you accompany me? "

The question was unexpected; the lawyer request