“Gentlemen—I am sending you two silver fox skins, for which please give me credit. I enclose an order for supplies, to be sent by bearer. Also be good enough to hand the bearer any mail matter which may be waiting for me.
“Yours truly,
“Ernest Imbrie.”
The silence of stupefaction descended on them. The only gateway to the Swan River lay through Enterprise. How could a man have got there without their knowing it? Stupefaction was succeeded by resentment.
“Will I be good enough to hand over his mail?” sneered Gaviller. “What kind of elegant language is this from Swan River?”
“Sounds like a regular Percy,” said Strange, who always echoed his chief.
“Funny place for a Percy to set up,” said Stonor drily.
“He orders flour, sugar, beans, rice, coffee, tea, baking-powder, salt, and dried fruit,” said Gaviller, as if that were a fresh cause of offence.
“He has an appetite, then,” said Stonor, “he’s no ghost.”
Suddenly they fell upon Mahtsonza with a bombardment of questions, forgetting that the Indian could speak no English. He shrank back affrighted.
“Wait a minute,” said Strange. “Let me talk to him.”
He conferred for awhile with Mahtsonza in the strange, clicking tongue of the Kakisas. Gaviller soon became impatient.