“Why you no answer, you—you Pod!” he exclaimed. “I want know. Comprenez-vous? Joe Picquet wan’ know wha’ for you break in his skeen keg an’ take un-deux-trois nice skeen?”
Again there was silence. Old Joe rose and came close to the man. This time he shook a finger in his face.
“Attendez, you leetle coyote! You do worse as zees. You steal from two garçons one black fox skeen. Where dose skeens? We come to get dem.”
The little man blinked as the finger was shaken in his face, but he made no other sign that he had heard. Old Joe’s eyes began to blaze. This was sheer obstinacy.
“You answer pret’ queeck or we load you on sled an’ take you Red Fox trading pos’. Have you give up to zee jail. Now you talk.”
The little man made a peevish face and waved his arms about feebly. “I dunno nuthin’ 'bout yer skins,” he said. “What’s the matter with you?”
This time it was Joe who did not answer. Near the head of the man, half under the sacks that served him as pillows, Joe had seen some skins sticking out. With scant regard for “Pod’s” comfort, he began pulling at these.
For the first time, Pod began to grow restless.
“Them’s all mine,” he insisted, “t’aint no use your lookin’. Ain’t none of yours thar, mister.”
“Where are dey, den? Where is dat black fox skeen you take from les garçons on zee Porc’pine Riviere?”