at the door, engaged upon some task
with his nimble fingers. Consequently, no management on Joe's part was
required to bring the conversation around to him. Seeing the trader's
eye fall there, he had only to say:

"Great old boy, isn't he?"

"One of the best," said Beattie warmly. "The present generation
doesn't produce 'em! He's as honest as he is intelligent, too. Any
trader in the country would let him have anything he wanted to take.
His word is as good as his bond."

"Too bad he's up against it in his old age," suggested Joe.

"Up against it, what do you mean?" asked Beattie.

"Well, he can't do much any more. And he doesn't seem to have any
folks."

"Oh, Musq'oosis has something put by for a rainy day!" said Beattie.
"For years he carried a nice little balance on my books."

"What did he do with it, then?" asked Joe carelessly.

Beattie suspected nothing more in this than idle talk.

"Transferred it to the French outfit," he said with a shrug. "I
suppose he wanted Mahooley to know he's a man of means. He can't have
spent any of it. I'll probably get it back some day."

"How did he get it in the first place?" asked Joe casually. "Out of
fur?"

"No," said Beattie; "he was in some kind of partnership with a man
called Walter Forest, a white man. Forest died, and the amount was
transferred to Musq'oosis. It's twenty years ago. I inherited the debt
from my predecessor here."

Joe, seeing that the trader had nothing more of special interest to
tell him, let the talk pass on to other matters. By and by he rose,
saying:

"Guess I'll go down and talk to the old boy until dinner's ready."

"It is always profitable," said Beattie. "Come in again."

"I'll let you know about the plough," said Joe.

* * * * *

"Hello, Musq'oosis!" began Joe facetiously. "Fine weather for old
bones, eh?"

"Ver' good," replied Musq'oosis blandly. The old man had no great
liking for this burly youth with the comely, self-indulgent face, nor
did he relish his style of address; however, being a philosopher and a
gentleman, this did not appear in his face. "Sit down," he added
hospitably.

Musq'oosis was making artificial flies against the opening of the
trout season next month. With bits of feather, hair, and thread he was
turning out wonderfully lifelike specimens--not according to the
conventional varieties, but as a result of his own half-century's
experience on neighbouring streams. A row