"Dat rat," agreed Frenchy, with alacrity. "Dat better I ain' got Hurley mad on me, ba goss!"
[CHAPTER XIV]
A PAIR OF SOCKS
A WEEK later Connie was roused from his desk in the little office by the sound of bells. There was a loud "Whoa!" and Frenchy, wearing his long stocking cap of brilliant red yarn, and clad in his gayest mackinaw, pulled up his four-horse tote-team with a flourish before the door, and stepped smiling from the sleigh.
"W'at you t'ink, now, m's'u l'infant? S'pose I'm trade ma gran' team for de beeg fat log hoss, de cook she don' git no supply for wan week. Den, mebbe-so you got to eat porkypine an' spruce tea. Me—I'm back to-mor' night, wit ma gran' tote-team, bien!"
Connie laughed. "I guess you've got the right team for the job, Frenchy. But it seems to me you picked out a bad day for the trail." It had turned suddenly warm during the night, and the boy indicated a shallow pool of muddy water that had collected in the depression before the door.
"De snow she melt fas' w'ere she all tromp down an' dirty, but on de tote road w'ere she w'ite an' clean she ain' melt so fas'." He paused and cocked an eye skyward. "I'm git to Dogfish before she melt an' tonight she gon' for turn col', an' tomor', ba goss, I'm com' back on de ice, lak de log road."
"WHAT'S THIS?" ASKED THE BOY, PUSHING UP A SMALL BUNDLE.