he position found illumination in the dialogue which
passed between two men lounging in Alroy's doorway as the great train
passed them by.

"Gee! Makes you wonder if us folks has the plague," laughed Kid
Restless, the most successful gambler that haunted Alroy's dive. "He
don't see a thing but Lorson's. He'd hate to pass a 'how-dy' to a cur.
But his trade ain't as big as last year. Guess Lorson'll halve his
smile. He's been coming along fourteen year, ain't it?"

Dupont nodded, his contemplative gaze following the procession of sleds
under the skilful driving of their attendants.

"Yep." Dupont was a lesser trader who lived in a state of furious
discontent at the monopoly of the greater store. "The Brand outfit's
been trading here fourteen years--and more."

"How's that?"

"Oh, ther's a heap queer about that outfit," said the envious whiskered
man, whose dark, sallow features suggested plainly enough his Jewish
origin. "Maybe it's that makes that feller act same as if we had
the--plague. He calls himself Brand, but he ain't the Brand who traded
here more than twenty years ago. Guess you wasn't around then. Guess I
wasn't, neither. I'd be crazy by now if I had been. But the story's
right enough. Brand--Marcel Brand--and his pardner traded here with
Lorson more than twenty years back. He came from God knows where, an' he
just went right back to the same place. Then him an' his pardner got
done up. The darn Eskimos, or neches, or ha'f-breeds, shot 'em both up
to small chunks. Lorson was nigh crazy for the trade he lost, for all
Brand was a free-trader like Lorson hates best. Then, three years or so
later, along comes this guy with the name of 'Marcel Brand,' and carried
on the trade. And he's a white man same as the other. It was then Lorson
took to smiling plenty again."

"You figger he's the feller that?----"

"I don't know. I 'low' got notions though."

Kid Restless was interested. There was little enough to interest him in
Seal Bay beyond the life of piracy he carried on at the card tables.

"It's some queer sort o' trade, ain't it?" he asked.

"Queer?" Dupont spat. "Oh, he trades pelts, some o' the best seals ever
reach this darnation swamp. But the trade that makes Lorson smile is
queer. I've seen bales of it shipped out of this harbour, an' it looks
like dried seaweed, an' smells like some serrupy flower you'd hate to
have around. Lorson just loves it to death, and I guess it needs to be a
good trade tha