that old barrel which used to belong to my fox,
but then you see I really couldn't be under any obligations to the
lady."

"Did you pay off the mortgage?"

"I did. So Polly strums rag-time tunes on my piano, Brooke wears my
early Victorian frock coat, they serve their beans and bacon with my
family plate, the gentleman sports my crest, the lady has my dear
mother's diamonds which are really paste. My dear, they're county
society--you really must call and leave cards."

"But the portraits!"

"They stared at me so rudely that I burnt them. Ancestors ought to
remember they're dead, and they'd rather be burned, too, than be claimed
as Polly's aunts."

"And the Star Pack-train?"

"A half-interest, my dear, a half-interest, that's all."

"So you're in partnership?"

"Why, no. Fact is, old Pete has been working thirty-five years, with his
faithful eyes shining behind that hair--it's silver now, eh? Well, I
couldn't leave him in the lurch. And there's the Hudson's Bay to
consider, with forts up north depending on us for supplies. And I
suppose, when I come to think of it, I'm rather proud of the outfit.
So, in my sentimental way, I made a deed by which Pete is managing
owner, with a half-interest, while Polly is sleeping partner with no
right to interfere."

"You've told Pete?"

"No. I suppose I've got to own up?"

"You don't want Pete to be cheated by his partners."

"You're right. Just open my desk and look inside. It's the paper on
top."

I found and read the deed.

"You've read it, of course," I said.

"It was read to me by the lawyer chap. Isn't it all right?"

"Oh, yes," I managed to say, "it's all right--such funny legal jargon."

I looked at the names of the witnesses, Cultus McTavish and Low-lived
Joe, the worst characters in our district. The document read to the old
blind man had been no doubt destroyed. The deed actually signed made
Polly sole owner of the famous pack-train. My friend had been cheated.

CHAPTER V

THE CARGADOR

_Kate's Narrative_

It was sixty degrees below zero. The moonlight lay in silver on the
pines, the hundred-and-four-mile cabin, deep buried among the drifts,
glittered along the eaves with icicles, the smoke went up into the hush
of death, and the light in the frosted window would glow till nearly
dawn.

Within, Pete sat upon his shiny bench, rolling waxed end upon his shiny
knee, and tautened his double stitches through the night, scarcely
feeling the