“We ran into a big herd and filled the boat up, then touched at East Cape, Siberia.
“There wasn’t any real Russians there, so we went up to the native village. Old Nepassok, the chief, seemed to take a liking to me. He took me into his storeroom and showed me all his treasure—walrus and mastodon ivory, whale bone, red and white fox skins by the hundred, and some mink and beaver. Then at last he pulled out an oily cotton bag from somewhere far back in the corner and drew out of it—what do you think? The most perfect brace of silver fox skins I have ever seen! Black beauties, they were, with maybe a white hair for every square inch. Just enough for contrast. Know who wears skins like that? Only the very wealthiest people.
“And there I was looking at them, worth a king’s ransom, and maybe I could buy them.”
“Could you?” breathed Cordie.
“I could, and did. It took me four hours. The chief was a hard nut to crack. He left me just enough to get back to Chicago, but what did I care? I had a fortune, one you could carry in two fair sized overcoat pockets, but a fortune all the same.
“I got to Chicago with them,” he leaned forward impressively, “and then a barber—a dark faced, hawk-eyed barber—done me out of them. Of course he was a crook, just playing barber. Probably learned the trade in jail. Anyway he done me for my fortune. Cut my hair, he did, and somehow got the fox skins out of my bag. When I got to my hotel all I had in my bag was a few clothes and a ten dollar gold piece. I raced back to the barber shop but he was gone; drawed his pay and skipped, that quick.
“That,” he finished, allowing his shoulders to drop into a slouch, “is why I’m carrying books here. I have to, or starve. Just what comes after Christmas I can’t guess. It’s not so easy to pick up a job after the holidays.
“But do you know—” he sat up straight and there was a gleam in his eye, “do you know when I saw that barber fellow last?”
“Where?”
“Down below the sub-basement of this store, in the boiler room at night.”