"What's this?" asked the boy, picking up a small bundle done up in brown wrapping paper that lay upon the seat of the sleigh.
"Oh, dat wan pair wool sock Slue Foot sen' down to Corky Dyer for ke'p he's feet wa'm. I'm mak' dat go on de, w'at you call, de express."
Connie picked up the package and regarded it with apparent unconcern. "Who's Corky Dyer?" he asked, casually.
"Corky Dyer, she ke'p de s'loon down to Brainard. She frien' for Slue Foot, lak wan brudder."
As Frenchy's glance strayed to Steve, who came hurrying toward them with his list of supplies from the cook's camp, Connie's foot suddenly slipped, the package dropped from his hand squarely into the middle of the puddle of dirty water, and the next instant the boy came heavily down upon it with his knee.
"O-o-o-o!" wailed the excitable Frenchman, dancing up and down. "Now I'm ketch, w'at you call, de t'undaire! Slue Foot, she git mad on me now, ba goss! She say, 'You mak' dat leetle package los' I'm bre'k you in two!'"
Connie recovered the package, from which the wet paper was bursting in a dozen places. He glanced at it ruefully for a moment, and then, as if struck with a happy thought, he grinned. "We'll fix that all right," he said reassuringly, and turned toward the door.
"Non," protested Frenchy, dolefully, "dat ain' no good, to put on de new papier. De sock she got wet, an' de new papier she bus', too."
"You just hold your horses——"