ng an irate master, and
wondering where the blow will fall.

To carry out this effect he was holding something inside his voluminous
jacket, something that suggested contraband.

"What have you got there?" demanded Ambrose.

Without changing a muscle of his face, Alexander undid a button and
produced a gleaming black pelt.

Ambrose gasped. It was a beautiful black fox. Such a prize does not
come a trader's way once in three seasons. The last black fox Minot &
Doane had secured brought twelve hundred dollars in London--and it was
not so fine a specimen as this.

Lustrous, silky, black as anthracite; every hair in place, and not a
white hair showing except the tuft at the end of the brush.

"Where did you get it?" Ambrose asked, amazed.

"I trap him, me, myself," said Alexander.

"When?"

"Las' Februar'."

"Are you offering it to me?" asked Ambrose, eying it desirously.

"'Ow much?" demanded Alexander, affecting a wall-eyed indifference.

Ambrose made a more careful examination. There was no doubt of it; the
skin was perfect. He thrilled at the idea of returning with such a
prize to his partner. He made a rapid calculation.

"Five hundred and fifty cash," he said. "Seven hundred fifty in trade."

A spark showed in Alexander's eyes.

"It is yours," he said.

"How can we make a trade?" asked Ambrose, perplexed. "John Gaviller
would never honor any order of mine. I have no goods here to give you
in trade."

"All right," said Alexander imperturbably. "I go to Moultrie to get
goods."

"You, too," said Ambrose. "I can't import you all."

"I got go Moultrie, me," said Alexander. "I got trouble wit' Gaviller.
He starve me and my children. They sick."

"Starve you!"

"Gaviller say give no more debt till I bring him my black fox,"
Alexander went on apathetically. "Give no flour, no sugar, no meat, no
tea. My brot'er feed us some. Gaviller say to him better not. So now
we have nothing. We ongry."

This promised difficulties. Ambrose frowned. "Tell me the whole
story," he said.

The little man was eying the grub-box wolfishly. Throwing back the
cover, Ambrose offered him a cold bannock.

"Here," he said. "Eat and tell me."

Alexander without a word turned and scrambled up the bank and
disappeared, clutching the loaf to his breast. The white man shouted
after him without effect. He left the precious pelt behind him.

Ambrose shrugged philosophically. "You never can tell."