It was so today. Harm Stark was an interesting man. He had been everywhere that was north. He talked in a drawling voice of Fairbanks, Dawson, Nome, of Fort McMurray, and Great Slave Lake.
When the taxi at last came to a halt Jimmie had no idea of the direction they had taken nor of the distance that they had traveled.
“This is the place,” said Harm Stark, fairly lifting Jimmie out of the car. “Not much for looks but the vaults are good.”
“Vaults?” said Jimmie.
“Sure! Don’t you know, furs are kept in vaults.”
“To prevent them from being stolen?” Jimmie asked.
“Partly that. More because they must be kept at a cool, even temperature, air conditioned, you might say. Heat is bad for them.
“Hello, Sol!” exclaimed Harm Stark, grasping the hand of a short, pudgy man who greeted him at the door with a smile. “I just wanted to show Jimmie here some of my fox skins.”
“But they are my skins now.” The man rubbed his small hands together nervously.
“Sure they are. You bought them,” Stark laughed good-naturedly. “But lookin’ at them won’t do them any harm.”