There was no mistaking the New England “Down East” accent, which reminded Tom of Ruel at “the Pines.”
“Well, hardly that,” answered Fred, taking the man for the proprietor of the store. “We thought we might price some of these rugs, though. How much do you ask for this one?”
“Bless ye!” exclaimed the other, with a good-natured laugh; “I don’t know nothin’ ’baout selling ’em. Ask the storekeeper in there.”
“Oh! I thought”—began Fred, blushing a little at his mistake.
“I see,” laughed their new friend; “ye took me for the owner. Wall, you war’n’t so fur aout o’ the way, either. I was the owner o’ that pelt, last fall.”
The boys waited for more; seeing which the hunter—for such he seemed to be—went on: “I shot that ’ar b’ar up ’n the Yukon valley, last September. He was jest lookin’ fer a place to den up, I reckon, when he run foul o’ my rifle,” he added, with a silent chuckle.
“What kind of a bear is it?” asked Tom. “A cinnamon?”
“Reg’lar cinnamon. Braown b’ar, some folks call ’em. They’re’s thick’s squirrels back in the maountings. But this was an extra fine one, an’ no mistake.”
Just then the storekeeper came out and greeted the party. “How do you do, gentlemen? Won’t you walk in? Finest skins in Juneau—no harm looking at ’em, whether you want to buy or not. Halloo, Solomon! round again? How soon do you start North?”
“Wall, in ’baout a month, I reckon. The musquiters are too thick to make it more’n half-comf’table in the woods jest naow.”