"Doin' here!" exclaimed the little old man. "Oi'm livin' here, that's what Oi'm doin'—jest like Oi've done f'r fifteen year. Come on in av ye want to palaver. Oi'm owld an' like to freeze standin' here in th' dure, an' if ye won't come in, g'wan away, an' bad cess to yez f'r not bringin' me back me money."
Saginaw glanced at Connie and touched his forehead significantly. As they stepped into the stuffy interior, the old man closed the door and fastened it with an oak bar. Little light filtered through the heavily frosted window, and in the semi-darkness the two found difficulty picking their way amid the litter of traps, nets, and firewood that covered the floor. The little room boasted no chair, but, seating himself upon an upturned keg, the owner motioned his visitors to the bunk that was built along the wall within easy reach of the little cast iron cooking stove that served also to heat the room.
"Ye say ye've lived here for fifteen years?" asked Saginaw, as he drew off his heavy mittens.
"Oi have thot."
"Ye wasn't here last winter."
"Thot's whut Oi'm afther tellin' yez. Last winter I wuz to the city."
"This here shack looks like it's old, all right," admitted Saginaw. "Funny no one run acrost it last winter."
"Ut snowed airly," cut in the little man, "an' if they ain't no wan here to dig her out, she'd drift plumb under on th' furst wind."
"Who are you?" asked Connie. "And what do you do for a living? And what did you mean about your money?"