"Oh, bless us! he's only worth fifteen cents," remonstrated Jack. "His wool is but used for lining--put on the inside of Men's big coats where it won't show. But your fur, dear Pussy Marten, is worth eight dollars; think of that! Of course that's for a prime pelt. That Brother of yours, sitting over there with the faded yellow jacket, wouldn't fetch more than three or four at the outside; but I'll give you seven for yours now, and chance it--shouldn't wonder if you'd fetch twelve when they skin you, for your coat is nice and black."
"I suppose there's no price on your hide," whined Lynx; "it's nice to be of no value in the world--isn't it?"
"There's always a price on brains; but that doesn't interest you, Silly, does it? You're not in the market. Your understanding runs to a fine discrimination in perfumes--prominent odours, like Castoreum, or dead Fish. If you were a Man you'd have been a hair-dresser.
"Muskwa, your pelt's a useful one; still it doesn't sell for a very great figure. Last year at Wapiscaw I saw pictures on the Factor's walls of men they call Soldiers, and they had the queerest, great, tall head-covers, made from the skins of cousins of yours. And the Factor also had a Bear pelt on the floor, which he said was a good one, worth twenty dollars--that's your value dead, twenty dollars.
"Mooswa's shaggy shirt is good; but they scrape the hair off and make moccasins of the leather. Think of that, Weed-eater; perhaps next year the Trappers will be walking around in your hide, killing your Brother, or your Daddy, or some other big-nosed, spindle-legged member of your family. The homeliest man in the whole Chippewa tribe they have named 'The Moose,' and he's the ugliest creature I ever saw; you'd be ashamed of him--he's even ashamed of himself."
"What's the hide worth?" asked Carcajou.
"Seven dollars the Factor pays in trade, which is another name for robbery; but I think it's dear at that price, with no hair on, for it is tanned, of course--the Squaws make the skin into leather. You wouldn't believe, though, that they'd ever be able to skin Bushy-tail, would you?"
"What! the Skunk?" cried Lynx. "Haven't the Men any noses?"
"Not like yours, Slink; but they take his pelt right enough; and the white stripes down his back that he's so proud of are dyed, and these Men, who are full of lies, sell it as some kind of Sable. And Marten, too, they sell him as Sable--Canadian Sable."
"I'm sure we are all enjoying this," suggested Black King, sarcastically.