was on the water, and the little
craft went skimming and wimpling across. In half an hour it was beached
at Callan's. In a little more than an hour's jog and stride he was at
Warren's, ready for work. As he marched in, strong and brisk, his colour
up, his blue eyes kindled with the thought of seeing Albany, the trader
could not help being struck by him, especially when he remembered each
of their meetings--meetings in which he discerned a keen, young mind of
good judgment, one that could decide quickly.

Gazing at the lithe, red-checked lad, he said: "Say, Rolf, air ye an
Injun??"

"No, sir."

"Air ye a half-breed?"

"No, I'm a Yank; my name is Kittering; born and bred in Redding,
Connecticut."

"Well, I swan, ye look it. At fust I took ye fur an Injun; ye did look
dark (and Rolf laughed inside, as he thought of that butternut dye), but
I'm bound to say we're glad yer white."

"Here, Bill, this is Rolf, Rolf Kittering, he'll go with ye to
Albany." Bill, a loose-jointed, middle-aged, flat-footed, large-handed,
semi-loafer, with keen gray eyes, looked up from a bundle he was roping.

Then Warren took Rolf aside and explained: "I'm sending down all my fur
this trip. There's ten bales of sixty pounds each, pretty near my hull
fortune. I want it took straight to Vandam's, and, night or day, don't
leave it till ye git it there. He's close to the dock. I'm telling ye
this for two reasons: The river's swarming with pirates and sneaks.
They'd like nothing better than to get away with a five-hundred-dollar
bundle of fur; and, next, while Bill is A1 on the river and true as
steel, he's awful weak on the liquor; goes crazy, once it's in him. And
I notice you've always refused it here. So don't stop at Troy, an'
when ye get to Albany go straight past there to Vandam's. You'll have
a letter that'll explain, and he'll supply the goods yer to bring back.
He's a sort of a partner, and orders from him is same as from me.

"I suppose I ought to go myself, but this is the time all the fur is
coming in here, an' I must be on hand to do the dickering, and there's
too much much to risk it any longer in the storehouse."

"Suppose," said Rolf, "Bill wants to stop at Troy?"

"He won't. He's all right, given he's sober. I've give him the letter."

"Couldn't you give me the letter, in case?"

"Law, Bill'd get mad and quit."

"He'll never know."

"That's so; I will." So when they paddled away, Bill had an important
letter of inst