Mr. Watt did a big business in a small store. That’s the kind of business man he was, but in character he was a very different sort of person. He was small in character and large in body and manner. As a storekeeper his activities were larger than his premises, but as a man, his chest and legs and arms and skull—yes, and his “lower chest”—were much too large for him. He had a stiff right wrist, calculating and watchful eyes of no particular color, large hands queerly shaped and a large manner of good-fellowship and an unattractive mustache.
Young Dan found Luke Watt behind his counter, in a corner close to one of the dirty windows, barricaded into his position by boxes and barrels and crates and bags. Young Dan worked his way inward to the counter. He saw, as he advanced, that the other did not know him.
“Good morning, Mr. Watt,” he said. “I’m Dan Evans from up past the Bend—Young Dan Evans. I got a few skins here I want to sell.”
“Of course ye’re Dan Evans!” exclaimed Luke Watt. “Didn’t I know it the minute I see you! Lay it there! How’s tricks up river?”
“Pretty good, I guess,” replied the youth. “It’s been a great winter for trapping so far, anyhow.”
He undid his pack on the head of a barrel at his elbow and placed a couple of pelts on the counter. A swift glance at Watt’s face told him that the storekeeper was finding it difficult to hide his enthusiasm.
“Um—fisher,” said Mr. Watt. “Mighty common skins, ain’t they?”
“They are as good fisher as were ever trapped on the Oxbow,” said Young Dan.
“Sure they’re good of their kind—but they’re fisher; and fisher are all-fired common this year. And skins ain’t much in my line, anyhow. I buy a few—but I’m that good natured an’ easy I always lose money on the deal. What d’ye figger these two skins is worth? Three times their real value, I’ll bet a dollar!”
“Maybe so,” replied Young Dan slowly and in a puzzled voice. “Yes, just about that, I guess. I don’t know as much about selling ’em as I do about catching ’em.”