The air was kind to his heated brow. As he took the first few steps his costume troubled him. He was wearing the parka and the corduroy trousers. He felt no longer the slight tug of puttees about his ankles. His trousers flapped against his legs at every step. The hood heated the back of his neck. The fur trousers and the skin boots were in the bundle under his arm. His soldier's uniform he had left with the keeper of the hidden clothes shop. He hardly thought that anyone, save a very personal acquaintance, would recognize him in his new garb, and there was little chance of such a meeting at this hour of the night. However, he gave three American officers, apparently returning from a late party of some sort, a wide berth, and dodging down a narrow street, made his way toward the railway yards where he would find the drowsy comforts of the caboose of the "Reindeer Special."
"American, ain't y'?" A sergeant of the United States army addressed this question to Johnny.
The latter was curled up half asleep in a corner of the caboose of the "Reindeer Special" which had been bumping over the rails for some time.
"Ya-a," he yawned.
"Going north to trade, I s'pose?"
Johnny was tempted not to answer. Still, he was not yet out of the woods.
"Yep," he replied cheerfully. "Red fox, white fox, mink, squirrel, ermine, muskrat. Mighty good price."
"Where's your pack?" The sergeant half grinned.
Johnny sat up and stared. No, it was not that he had had a pack and lost it. It was that he had never had a pack. And traders carried packs. Why to be sure; things to trade for furs.