Midnight
cries Jean breathlessly . `` Rare furs for the king , '' calls Radisson . Then the wind is in our hair , and thatched cots race off in a blur on either side ; plodding workmen stand to stare and are gone ; open fields give place to forest , forest to village , village to bare heath ; and still we race on . * * * * * * Midnight found us pounding through the dark of London streets for Cheapside , where lived Mr. Young , a director of the Hudson 's Bay Company , who was favourable to Pierre Radisson . `` Halloo ! Halloo ! '' shouts Radisson , beating his pistol-butt on the door .