"Quey! Quey!" he threw out as he strode to the counter.
"Hello, Joe! I didn't expect to see you till spring!"
The factor turned from his paper to shake hands over the counter with the tall trapper.
"I thought you said you were going to winter in the Sinking Lake country and wouldn't get in for Christmas?"
"I cum from de Sinkeen Lak' in seex sleep; I got nice fur for you."
"Nice fur, eh? Black fox?"
"Tree of dem," said the Cree, his small black eyes snapping with pride. The loungers who had moved to the counter to shake hands with the voyageur and hear the talk, grunted in surprise.
"Too bad! Too bad, Joe!" The factor shook his head. "We've sad news from Quebec. War across the Big Water! Nobody buys fur! Prices all gone to smash!"
The dark face of the Indian changed with disappointment.
"How? What you spik?"
"The Great Father in England fights the Germans," explained the factor. "Mail-team just in with new prices for the Company posts. I'm sorry, Joe, I can't allow you much on your skins."
"I got plentee marten an' feesher-cat," the Indian muttered in his chagrin.
"Too bad, furs all gone down; bad times for the Company, bad for the Injun."
