"'Tis a foine robe she'll make, Bill, an' in th' North, among white min an' Injuns, 'twill give ye place an' shtandin'—but not wid Moncrossen," he added with a frown.
"Come on along. Foller yez in behint, f'r th' thrail'll be fair br-roke. Phwat wid two thrips wid th' rackets an' th' dhrag av th' wolf, 'twill not be bad. 'Tis only a mather av twinty minutes to phwere Frinchy'll bether be waitin' wid th' harses."
CHAPTER XVI
MONCROSSEN
They found LaFranz waiting in fear and trembling. The heavy snow-plow was left in readiness for the morrow's trail-breaking, and the horses hitched to a rough sled and headed for camp.
"An' ye say Misther Appleton sint ye up to wor-rk in Moncrossen's camp?" The two were seated on the log bunk at the back of the sled while the Frenchman drove, keeping a fearful eye on the white wolf. For old man Frontenelle had been his uncle.
"Yes, he told me to report here."
"D'ye know Moncrossen?"
"No."