Long, stringing flocks of pigeons going north were the most numerous forms of life. But a porcupine on the bank and a bear in the water aroused Skookum to a pitch of frightful enthusiasm and vaulting ambition that he was forced to restrain.
On the evening of the third day they landed at Warren's and found a hearty welcome from the trader, who left a group of loafers and came forward:
“Good day to ye, boy. My, how ye have growed.”
So he had. Neither Rolf nor Quonab had remarked it, but now they were much of the same height. “Wall, an' how'd ye make out with yer hunt?—Ah, that's fine!” as each of them dropped a fur pack on the counter. “Wall, this is fine; we must have a drink on the head of it,” and the trader was somewhat nonplussed when both the trappers refused. He was disappointed, too, for that refusal meant that they would get much better prices for their fun But he concealed his chagrin and rattled on: “I reckon I'll sell you the finest rifle in the country this time,” and he knew by Rolf's face that there was business to do in that line.
Now came the listing of the fur, and naturally the bargaining was between the shrewd Yankee boy and the trader. The Indian stood shyly aside, but he did not fail to help with significant grunts and glances.
“There, now,” said Warren, as the row of martens were laid out side by side, “thirty martens—a leetle pale—worth three dollars and fifty cents each, or, to be generous, we'll say four dollars.” Rolf glanced at Quonab, who, unseen by the trader shook his head, held his right hand out, open hollow up, then raised it with a jerk for two inches.
Quickly Rolf caught the idea and said; “No, I don't reckon them pale. I call them prime dark, every one of them.” Quonab spread his hand with all five fingers pointed up, and Rolf continued, “They are worth five dollars each, if they're worth a copper.”
“Phew!” said the trader. “you forget fur is an awful risky thing; what with mildew, moth, mice, and markets, we have a lot of risk. But I want to please you, so let her go; five each. There's a fine black fox; that's worth forty dollars.”
“I should think it is,” said Rolf, as Quonab, by throwing to his right an imaginary pinch of sand, made the sign “refuse.”
They had talked over the value of that fox skin and Rolf said, “Why, I know of a black fox that sold for two hundred dollars.”