“Look at that nine-fifty multiplied by seven,” said the youth. “Conley bought seven bottles. He paid sixty-six dollars and fifty cents for gin; and he was well into number five when you found him lost in the woods. And Watt soaked him six dollars for fifty bum cigars. He must of had some good skins. But of course that bill is no proof that Conley traded his skins with Luke Watt. I guess he did, though; for he wasn’t gone long enough to travel all the way down to Harlow and back. He did all his buying from Luke Watt, anyhow.”
The old woodsman refolded the paper carefully and returned it to his partner. Then he filled his pipe and lit it with deliberate motions.
“Young Dan, I was feelin’ kinder fretful a while back when I talked to ye that-a-way,” he said at last. “My knee was hurtin’ me cruel. Yer guess is as good to me as another man’s oath. What d’ye reckon to do, pardner?”
“I reckon to go out and fetch a doctor in to fix your knee for you, first thing,” replied Young Dan, as he stowed the paper away safely in a breast-pocket.
Andy Mace shook his head.
“This here j’int plays out on me like this every now an’ agin,” he returned “and I got medicine for it at home, made for me by Doc Johnston down to Harlow—inside medicine. The trouble’s a touch o’ rheumatics in my blood, so the Doc said, an’ maybe the fight I had with the Quebecer fifty year ago ain’t got as much to do with it as I let on—an’ then agin, maybe it has. Anyhow, Doc Johnston’s medicine loosens up the j’int every time, an’ I got two bottles in my pantry this minute as good as new. If I had them here I’d be right as wheat in a day or two.”
“Why didn’t you tell me so before?” asked Young Dan.
“Well, I reckoned it would sound kinder babyish; an’ I was hopin’ all along until yesterday that it would quit hurtin’ an’ loosen up any minute. I was bankin’ on the b’ar’s grease. But last night didn’t help it none.”
Young Dan went out with his axe to chop wood and at the same time to consider the imposing problem which confronted him. Andy Mace must have his medicine as soon as possible—and that meant a two-day trip; and Mrs. Conley and the two little Conleys must be fed, since the bread-winner had brought nothing in for them except a pound of bacon—and that meant a day; and Jim Conley’s little game must be investigated at both ends—and that might well mean a week or more. What about his traps scattered along four six-mile lines? His business was bound to suffer—but that was not the thought that worried him most in connection with the traps. He fretted at the thought of waste on one hand, and on the other of again supplying Jim Conley with the means of acquiring more gin. These things were bound to happen, he believed, so long as the traps remained set and baited, and unattended by Andy Mace or himself. Animals bearing valuable pelts would be caught only to suffer the unprofitable fate of being devoured, pelts and all, by other fur-bearers, or to be skinned by Jim Conley. The traps must be sprung; and that meant a hard two-day job. But to leave Andy Mace without his medicine for four days instead of two was out of the question!
“It’s more’n one man can do!” exclaimed Young Dan, sinking his axe deep into the prostrate maple upon which he stood. “A man can do two or three things at once, maybe, but not all in different places, I guess. I can’t anyhow; and that’s all there is to it! Now the question is, what’s to be done first? Guess I’ll leave it to chance and toss for it.”