"God save our country, friends," repeated the man.
So far, so good. The man, a thick, stocky, heavy-eyed fellow, moistened his broad lips with his tongue, peered furtively at me, and instantly dropped his eyes. At the same instant memory stirred within me; a vague recollection of those heavy, black eyes, of that broad, bow-legged figure set me pondering.
"Me fri'nd," purred Murphy, persuasively, "is th' Frinch thrappers balin' August peltry f'r to sell in Canady?"
"I've a few late pelts from the lakes," muttered the man, without looking up.
"Domned late," cried Murphy, gayly. "Sure they do say, if ye dhraw a summer mink an' turrn th' pelt inside out like a glove, the winther fur will sprout inside--wid fashtin' an' prayer."
The man bent his eyes obstinately on the ground; instead of smiling he had paled.
"Have you the skin of a wampum bird in that bale?" asked Mount, pleasantly.
Elerson struck the pack with the flat of his hand; the mangy wolverine pelt crackled.
"Green hides! Green hides!" laughed Mount, sarcastically. "Come, my friend, we're your customers. Down with your bales and I'll buy."
Murphy had laid a heavy hand on the man's shoulder, halting him short in his tracks; Elerson, rifle cradled in the hollow of his left arm, poked his forefinger into the bales, then sniffed at the aperture.