"Haven't got any. And I don't suppose I could use them if I had." The other stared at him incredulously.
"Not got any! Thin how'd ye git here?"
"Walked—or rather, stumbled along."
"Phwere from?"
"It started to snow as I left the old shack—the last one this way, I don't know how far back. It was there I traded my boots to an Indian for these." He extended a moccasined foot.
"'Tis a good job ye traded. But even at that—thirty-foive moile t'rough th' snow widout webs!" The Irishman looked at him in open admiration. "An' on top av that, killin' th' werwolf wid a knoife, an' choppin' her pack loike so much kindlin's! Green, ye may be—an' ignorant. But, frind, ye've done a man's job this day, an' Oi'm pr-roud to know yez."
Again he extended his hand and Bill seized it in a strong grip. Somehow, he did not resent being called green, and ignorant—he was learning the North.
"Fallon's me name," the other continued, "an' be an accident av birth, Oi'm called Oirish, f'r short."
"Mine is Bill, which is shorter," replied Carmody, smiling.
For just a second Irish hesitated as if expecting further enlightenment, but, receiving none, reached down and grasped the tail of the white wolf.