t he had this to his advantage, that the
half-breed, though he had witnessed the signals, was almost as
ignorant as himself as to their real purport, and was therefore,
probably, just as curious.

They were sitting in a room, empty and comfortless, which was built on
to the end of the oblong which comprised the store. Its walls were
damp, and the news-papers, with which they had been covered, sagged
down from the boards like monstrous goitres. It had one window, which
looked riverwards, across whose panes, dust and cobweb smirched, a
muslin curtain had been hung by a previous agent, who was reputed to
have drunk himself to death. This was its only attempt at decoration,
save for a faded photo of a girl attired in early Victorian dress,
across the right-hand corner of which was scrawled, "Yours, with love,
from Gertrude." She looked a good girl, and Granger felt sorry for her
because, by the ordinary laws of nature, she had probably been dead
for many years; and he also felt sorry for her because he was certain
that the man who had placed her picture there had gone away and
disappointed her in her love.

Perhaps he had been the agent who, sitting there night after night,
gazing upon her portrait, torturing himself with memories of the
happiness which he had lost, had drunk himself to death. If that was
so, she had had her revenge. Going closer, he saw that the
photographer's name was recorded there, "Joseph Dean, New Bedford,
Mass." So she had been a New Englander, and her lover, whoever he was,
had probably started life as a sailor in the whaling fleet which at
that time set out annually from New Bedford for the North. In Keewatin
the memories of men for their neighbours, especially if they happen to
be private traders, are very short.

The room contained little furniture. There was a wooden shelf, knocked
together out of packing-cases, which ran along one side of the wall
and had probably done service as a bed. There was an upturned box, on
which a man might seat himself; and a low three-legged stool which
would serve as a table--that was all. In imitation of the no more
lavish accommodation set apart for single men at the Hudson Bay
Company's forts, the room was commonly known as Bachelors' Hall. The
door was fast-shut; the curtain was half-drawn before the window,
shutting out the long-tarrying June twilight; the three men had been
there together for four hours, and as yet nothing of importance had
transpired, an