The trader took the hint and nodded for him to try it.
Doby's greedy fingers closed over the trigger. It was rather heavy, of course, but he could lift and he could carry it.
"Fifteen going on sixteen is an age when every boy should have his own rifle," said his father. "But I'm sure our whole fall collection of skins would not pay for it."
The trader gave one appraising glance at the really fine stock they had spread for his examination and shook his head until his ear-rings danced.
Doby's heart sank like lead. Why was he always so foolish as to set his hopes on the one thing that was beyond reach? Why were guns so expensive?
The crafty voyageur was not anxious to part with it. "I think to sell it at much gain to one very rich youth—a hunter great and successful. He is newly a citizen of Vincennes. To him I bear a letter and a present of elegance supreme."
"We back out from the trade," laughed Mr. Holman. "We cannot overbid the rich and great."
Doby's mind shrank into a sordid little ball of envy. It was not fair for a rich boy to have a "present of elegance supreme" and the rifle both! As he opened his mouth to utter his selfish disappointment, a glance at his mother's sympathetic face, and at his father's resigned one, moved him to shut it again. If he could not own a gun, he could at least be decently quiet about his fate. But to be forever borrowing a gun was so humiliating to a big boy!
"Who is this wonderful hunter?" asked the mother, in neighborly curiosity.
"Of the family there are two; it is m'sieu the father, and m'sieu the son. For that son is the letter. I go to the town yonder. I inquire. I present myself to him."