“That’s a lie. There’s no complaint against the man.”
“But you are going out there, aren’t you?”
“I can’t discuss my movements with you.”
“That means you are going. Is it true he sent in a whole bale of silver foxes to the post?”
“Say, what’s your interest in this man, anyway?” said Stonor, losing patience.
“Nothing at all,” said the breed carelessly. “These Indians are always talking about him. It roused my curiosity, that’s all.”
“Suppose you satisfy my curiosity about yourself,” suggested Stonor meaningly.
The old light of impudent mockery returned to the comely dark face. “Me? Oh, I’m only a no-account hobo,” he said. “I’ll have to be getting ready now.”
And so Stonor’s curiosity remained unsatisfied. To have questioned the man further would only have been to lower his dignity. True, he might have arrested him, and forced him to give an account of himself, but the processes of justice are difficult and expensive so far north, and the policemen are instructed not to make arrests except when unavoidable. At the moment it did not occur to Stonor but that the man’s questions about Imbrie were actuated by an idle curiosity.
When the hour was up, the entire population of Carcajou Point gathered on the shore to witness Hooliam’s departure. Stonor was there, too, of course, standing grimly apart from the rabble. Of what they thought of this summary deportation he could not be sure, but he suspected that if the whisky were all gone, they would not care much one way or the other. Hooliam was throwing his belongings in a dug-out of a different style from that used by the Beavers. It was ornamented with a curved prow and stern, such as Stonor had not before seen.