“Who’s there?” he called.
For a moment there was no answer, then a voice replied:
“Eet’s me, Jacques Lamont.”
As quickly as possible Bob withdrew the bar and threw open the door. By the light of the moon he saw a powerfully built man standing in the doorway, and the next moment the two were shaking hands as though they would never stop.
“Weel, weel, to think of seeing you way up here, and Jack too,” the Frenchman almost shouted, as Jack, having shed his bag, rushed forward, and throwing his arms around the man’s neck, gave him a bear like hug.
“Where in the world did you come from?” Bob asked, as soon as Jack let the Frenchman loose.
“I been trapping up long Glazier Lake. Geet beeg lot ver’ fine fur and take hem to Greenville.”
Jacques Lamont was an old and very much loved friend of the Golden boys. He had worked for Mr. Golden off and on for many years, and the boys had always declared that he was the best Frenchman in the world. Now well past fifty, Jacques was as young and spry as most men of thirty. Straight as an arrow, his fame as an athlete was state wide. On more than one occasion they had seen him walk beneath a bar without stooping, and then run and leap over it. A fine physical specimen of manhood, his character was on a par with his physique.
“I have eat supper, oui. One minute till I feex these dogs and I be with you,” Jacques said as he passed out into the night again.
Both the boys followed him, and at sight of the strangers the four dogs set up a loud yelping; but, at a word from Jacques, they quickly quieted down. They were large rangy beasts, resembling closely the huge timber wolves, which they had fought. They were harnessed to a long sled, which was piled high with various pelts. It took the Frenchman but a few minutes to “stable” his team for the night, as all he did was to slip the harness from them.