Assorted Chips
By Hulbert Footner
Author of “The Way of the North," “Not to the Swiftest,” Etc.
YOUNG Chris McKeand was half-heartedly opening boxes and arranging his stock on the shelves of the French outfit's store at Kakisa River. It was a tiny, log-walled interior, with beams but an inch or two above Chris' head, a door that he was obliged to duck through, and a single small window incorrigibly out of plumb. Earlier in the day Chris had arrived to begin his annual five months' bit, as he called it, five months' incarceration from the sight of white men, excepting his friend and competitor, Dave Rennie, the Company's clerk at the same lone outpost. And even Dave's face was a thought dusky; moreover, Dave had a copper-colored wife, which made a difference. Dave was at home at Kakisa River, and Chris had nothing but a concertina.
His first customer of the season was Tommy Ascota, a slender fourteen-year-old. He came in with a brave assumption of his father's man-to-man air, that speedily wilted into sheepishness under the white man's grin. Tommy desired a can of condensed milk. Every year for a few days after the arrival of the traders, the Kakisa Indians must have milk in their tea. The rest of the year they do very well without it.
Chris filled his order, keeping up a humorous commentary that was lost on Tommy. It was Chris' custom to present each of his youthful customers with a piece of candy as long as it held out. To tease Tommy, who had put childish things far behind him, he took the cover off a box labeled “Assorted Chips,” that was lying on the counter, and pushed it toward the boy. Tommy hesitated with a dark frown; then fell. Snatching a piece out of the box, he darted out of the store. Chris laughed. Tommy suddenly reappeared with a furiously angry young face, and with a round oath in perfectly good English, all he knew, threw the chip at Chris and disappeared again.
Chris examined the undamaged chip curiously. It proved to be of celluloid. “Poker chips, by gum!” he exclaimed disgustedly. “How in glory do they expect me to sell poker chips out here!”
Although it was not three o'clock, it was already growing dark. By and by Dave Rennie came in, and joined Chris beside his air-tight stove. They were excellent friends. For a few days they would have plenty to say to each other, and after that they would sit for hours, taking mute comfort out of each other's society. Chris could not go to Dave's cabin, because Mrs. Rennie was jealous of the white influence over her white husband.
Dave was a small man of what age it would have been hard to say. He had inherited the large, pensive brown eyes of that red ancestress of his, and he was capable, unassuming, and patient. He alone of the white men of the country could speak the uncouth Kakisa dialect fluently, and he had considerable weight in the councils of the tribe. The quiet little man made a strong contrast to the bulky, sanguine, restless young Chris.
“Well, how goes it, kid?” said Dave.
“R-r-rotter!” answered Chris, rolling the “r” to give the word additional vicious emphasis.
Dave chuckled quietly.
“You can laugh,” said Chris. “You're well fixed here. You've got the trade cinched. You can speak their lingo. You're one” He pulled himself up.
“I'm one of them, you were going to say,” put in Dave.
"No offense meant,” said Chris gruffly.
“None taken,” said Dave quietly.
“Honest, I wish some one would tell me why they send me out here,” Chris went on querulously. “The post has never paid a cent. There are goods on the shelf that came out with the first consignment five years ago. How do they expect me to cut out your trade when you've known 'em for twenty years, and are related to the chief men. I believe our two concerns are in cahoots anyway. They won't let me cut prices.”
“It's a hard proposition,” agreed Dave.
Chris sprang up. “Hard!” he cried. “If you were twenty-five years old, and had a girl waiting for you outside, you'd know how hard it was!”
“Why don't you apply for a transfer?” suggested Dave.
Chris sullenly sat down again. “I have, twice,” he said. “They make me sick. They say they'll give me a better post as soon as I make good here. They put me up against a smooth wall, and then blame me because I don't skin over it!”
“You'll feel better in a day or so,” said Dave soothingly. “When the first strangeness wears off.”
Chris picked up his concertina. “Oh, yes, yes!” he said, with careless bitterness. “They say a man can get accustomed to a diet of arsenic in time!” He made a few flourishes on the concertina. "It's the girl I'm thinking of,” he went on in a lower tone. “You can't expect a girl to wait forever. She's a queen, Dave! If it wasn't for her letters I'd go clean off my nut. She sends me in a whole bundle by the last mail, one for each week during the winter. But there are plenty of other men on the spot. Better men than me, maybe. And five months”
“I don't think you need worry about the girl,” said Dave. “They're pretty steady.”
Chris looked at him sharply, as much as to say: “What do you know about white girls?” But he held his tongue.
“Give us a tune,” said Dave.
And Chris played “As Long as the Congo Flows to the Sea,” which had just reached Fort Enterprise during the past summer.. With three feet of snow outside, and a temperature of twenty below, it seemed particularly appropriate.
“You get a lot of pleasure out of that,” said Dave enviously. “Will you teach me how to squeeze it?”
“Sure!” said Chris. “It'll help pass the time.”
He gave the first lesson on the spot, a lesson that lasted until Dave's eldest girl came to bring him home to supper. But all the time Chris was thinking about something else.
“Did your stuff come over all right?” asked Dave as he rose.
“Same as usual,” said Chris. “Only the blank fools sent me a box of poker chips instead of the candy I ordered. Poker chips at Kakisa River!”
“We might get up a game,” suggested Dave.
“Ah-h! It's no fun for two,” said Chris. “And if we tried to teach Lookoovar or Jimmy Providence, the priest 'ud give us what-for in the spring for corruptin' the morals of his precious lambs.”
“Well, so long, and buck up, old top,” said Dave.
“Wait a second,” said Chris abstractedly. “Look a-here, Dave.” He was frowning now. “You know my only chance of getting out of this hole is in doing you. I want to give you fair warning. I'm going to get a share of your fur this winter or bust!”
Dave laughed. “Go as far as you like,” he said.
They shook hands on it.
When Chris was left alone he walked up and down the narrow length of his store, scowling. Anon he stopped, and went on again jerkily. He thrust his hands deep in his pockets; he drew them out, and abstractedly pulled his ears. His troubled eyes searched the floor, the walls, the stove, and along the shelves, as if he thought there must be a scheme concealed somewhere about the cabin. He finally drew a letter from his pocket, and consulted it for inspiration. There was this paragraph:
- I am saving up trading stamps to buy a lamp for us to read by some day, dear. I send a picture of it from the catalogue. Everybody has the trading-stamp craze here. It's very childish, but you can't resist it. You know how they do it, don't you? With every purchase of ten cents' worth you get a stamp that you paste in a book, and when the book is full you may exchange it for all kinds of fine things. I should think you might do something like this with the Indians, you have said they are so childish. But then I suppose you have nothing you could use for stamps.
Chris' eyes fell from the letter to the box of chips that still lay on the counter. Ho dug up one of the neat rolls, and let the thin spheres run clicking through his fingers. That sound, which is exactly like no other sound in the world, is inextricably associated in the male human mind with green baize and tobacco smoke. As Chris listened to it his eyes widened until they became as round as the chips them selves, and a slow, delighted smile spread to the farthest confines of his face.
“By Heaven, I have it!” he cried out loud.
Next morning Lookoovar came to make a small purchase from the French outfit, and to welcome the trader back to Kakisa River. The name Lookoovar was local patois for Le Couvert, the Blanket. The bearer of the name was not a beautiful object. His stringy gray hair was bound round with a band of dingy cotton that had not been changed within the memory of the village; his skin was wrinkled like a piece of dirty brown crepe; and, when he smiled, a hideous cavern of blackened and brown stumps was revealed. But Lookoovar was enormously good-natured. He was very proud of his English.
“Hello! Hello!” he cried, pawing Chris' hand and shouting with laughter. “You good man. Glad come, me. Bienvenu! Bienvenu!”
The concertina lay conspicuously on the counter. Lookoovar, his first transports over, signified that he would like to hear a tune, whereupon Chris, negligently sitting on the counter, played “Ta-ra-ra-boom-de-ay,” the Kakisas' favorite air. It was the only one they could be sure of recognizing. Lookoovar, laughing continually, beat time with head and hands.
“Like to try it?” suggested Chris casually.
The old man eagerly nodded, and Chris showed him how to hold the instrument, and to press it in. At the first squeak that issued from between his hands, Lookoovar jumped nervously, and would have dropped the instrument had it not been for the straps. At the second wail he took heart and began to smile. At the third excruciating discard he shouted with laughter, and began working the bellows so violently Chris was constrained to relieve him of it.
“You sell?” asked Lookoovar eagerly.
Chris shook his head.
“Twenty-five skins? Fifty skins?”
“No sell,” said Chris coolly. "Give away.”
Lookoovar stared at him incredulously. “You give me?” he demanded to know.
Chris shrugged elaborately. “What you want to-day?” he asked.
“Plug tobacco one skin,” said Lookoovar. “You give to me?” he repeated.
Chris counted the plugs out on the counter. “You buy your flour, and blankets, and traps from me this winter?” he asked.
Lookoovar shrugged, and looked out of the window.
Chris put on top of the tobacco—one white chip. Lookoovar started to convey it to his mouth, but Chris laid a restraining hand on his arm.
“No eat,” he said. “Put away.”
Lookoovar peered at him inquiringly.
Chris studied how to convey the scheme in sufficiently simple words. “To all who buy from me I give these pieces,” he explained carefully. “One white piece with every skin's worth of goods. One red piece for five white pieces. One blue piece for two red pieces. In the spring when I close the store, I give the singing box to the man who has the most blue pieces.”
Lookoovar pondered upon this.
“You buy your winter flour, and tea, and blankets, and traps from me,” Chris continued, “perhaps one hundred skins. Then I give you these.” He measured out two piles of fifty white chips each.
Lookoovar's old eyes brightened. But Chris could not be sure if he understood aright. Lookoovar pocketed the chip he had received, and left the store without another word. Chris hoped that he had gone to talk it over in the village.
The young trader spent an anxious half hour. At the end of that time Lookoovar returned, bringing his three sons to lend due effect to the transaction, and ordered a complete outfit for the use of his family at the fur camps. It was a triumph for Chris. His heart sang inside him, but he was careful to preserve as stolid a face as any Indian among them. It was much the largest order he had ever received, and the payment was assured, because the buyer was the second best hunter of the tribe. Lookoovar stowed away the chips in a tobacco bag he had brought for the purpose, and rattled them deliciously amidst the grins and the exclamations of his family. It was the nearest thing to money they had ever possessed.
A still greater triumph awaited Chris, for, by and by, who should come to the store but Jimmy Providence, the chief man of the largest family of the tribe! Jimmy was of a different type from old Lookoovar, a small, neat, agile hunter, with gentlemanly manners. He had a magnificent head of hair that was like a luxuriant black chrysanthemum clapped over his head. He disdained any other head covering.
Jimmy, after polite greetings, went directly to the heart of the matter. Pointing to the concertina, he said: “You show me?”
Chris was only too glad to give him a lesson.
Jimmy's eyes took on a delighted, far away look at the diverse squeaks and wails that issued from the concertina in response to the pressure of his fingers.
“You give away?” he asked.
Chris explained the proposed offer.
Jimmy understood readily. “It is mine,” he said superbly, “not any man big store credit as much like me!”
He thereupon gave Chris a larger order than Lookoovar's, and Chris counted out his chips.
These were the two chief men of the village, and thus Chris' plan was crowned with success. He trembled a little at his own temerity, and wondered how far the results would reach. He had actually delivered a body blow upon the mighty Company, that was so strong and so proud it could afford to laugh at its opponents. The other store was visible through Chris' little, crooked window, and Chris often looked in that direction, wondering how Dave was taking it. He would know, of course; there were plenty to carry the news.
Sure enough, in the middle of the day Dave came strolling carelessly over. Chris circumspectly ironed the grin out of his face.
“Morning, kid,” said Dave, offhand—there was no change in his face. “Thought I'd drop over and have a pipe with you.”
“Good!” said Chris. He could not resist adding: “How's business?”
“So-so,” said Dave. “How are you doing?”
“Not too badly,” said Chris, swallowing the snigger of laughter that made his diaphragm quiver.
Dave picked up the concertina, and produced a few tentative chords. “What'll you take for it?” he indifferently inquired.
“Not for sale,” said Chris.
“Twenty-five skins?”
“I've already been offered fifty.”
“Seventy-five, then?”
Chris shook his head.
“A hundred?”
“Two hundred wouldn't buy it,” said Chris.
“You could get one in from outside as good for twenty skins,” said Dave quietly.
“Sure,” said Chris. “In a year's time, if nothing happened to it on the way. I don't have to sell, do I?”
Dave laid it down quietly. If he was disturbed, he concealed it admirably, but it was noticeable that he forgot his expressed intention of having come for a smoke. He made for the door again.
“No hard feelings, Dave,” sang Chris.
“None in the world,” said Dave. “I just wanted to give you a chance to sell out while the price was up. It may take a tumble later.”
That was all.
After two days of heart-lifting business, the trade at Chris' store suddenly fell away to nothing, and, as before, he played the concertina to an admiring audience that looked out of the window and smiled blandly at any mention of trade. He suspected that some move of Dave's lay behind this, and he deputed Aleck Capot-blanc to find out. Aleck was the dandy young savage that broke trail for Chris when he traveled, and acted as his interpreter upon occasion. Chris showed Aleck an orange silk handkerchief, and became the master of his soul.
There was no difficulty in finding out. The explanation was simplicity itself. Dave had merely told all the people that if they would hold back their orders, for eight days, after that the Company would give two white pieces with every skin's worth of goods.
Chris whistled softly and long. He knew that Dave had dispatched a messenger by dog train to Fort Enterprise, but since he also knew that there was no concertina to be had there, and that nothing could be got in from the outside world before spring, he had not disturbed himself. He had not thought of more chips. Evidently Dave intended to issue trading stamps that he, Chris, would have to redeem. It was an ingenious idea. Chris became very thoughtful.
Ordinarily the round trip took twelve days, but if one changed dogs at the fort, and spared them neither going nor coming, it might be done in eight. Chris had plenty of time to think up a counter move. For a couple of days he was baffled, but then he received inspiration from a notice printed on the box of chips itself. He issued some private instructions to Aleck, who received them with an appreciative grin. After dark that afternoon, Aleck harnessed Chris' dogs, and, with his brother to keep him company, set off very quietly over the trail to the fort.
The entire village looked for the return of Ahcunazie, the Company's messenger, and, when he finally appeared on schedule, a good many of the people pushed into the Company's store to take advantage of the offer of double chips. Chris McKeand strolled over also. He observed that Ahcunazie was hiding a strained anxiety under an air of bravado, and he smiled comfortably to himself.
Ahcunazie entered to the waiting crowd. He was a little, shriveled specimen, bundled in miscellaneous ragged garments almost out of human semblance. His face was as blank and as bland as a child's that expects a beating, but still hopes against hope. His hands were empty.
“Where is the box?” demanded Dave sharply.
Ahcunazie shrugged expressively, and spread out his hands.
Dave came threateningly from behind the counter. “I know they have them,” he said. “What have you done with the box?”
Ahcunazie, looking to see if his line of retreat was open, made a spiral motion with his finger in the air.
Dave was fairly startled out of his quietness. “You” he cried, making a dive for his messenger, but Ahcunazie was already out of the door. He was not to be tempted inside again, until Dave promised not to lay hands on him.
“Now tell me what happened,” said Dave.
Ahcunazie looked around the waiting circle, and, in the pleasure of having a wonderful story to tell, he forgot his fears. “I get the box from Grierson at the fort,” he began dramatically. “I come back much quick. I spell by the little lake two sleeps from the fort, and Aleck Capot-blanc and his brother come on the trail. Aleck Capot-blanc say to me: 'Wah! What you got?' I say: 'White pieces, and red pieces, and blue pieces for the Company to give away.' Aleck Capot-blanc say: 'Let me see me.' I say: 'Non! It is tie by string.'
“Aleck Capot-blanc say: 'You not let him get cold.' 'Why?' I say, me. 'If him freeze no more good,' Aleck Capot-blanc say. Aleck, him take box, and shake him by the ear, and listen. 'So!' Aleck say, 'him froze I guess. You'll get it. Better put by the fire, you. Put box in the pan while you hitch up.'
“So Aleck Capot-blanc and his brother go on the trail. I feel bad me, for the pieces is froze. And when I go to catch the dogs I put the box in the pan to warm a little. Afterward I am lighting my pipe so. I think no harm at all. I go to get box. Bang! My head break open. I fall down. When I get up no box, no pan, no fire! There is big hole in the ground!”
The Indians, seeing Chris smile, were quick to understand the trick that had been played, and the cabin rang with their laughter. The prestige of the mighty Company received another blow, but Dave minimized its effect by the way he received it.
He shrugged, and forced a smile. “I lose!” he said cheerfully. From under the counter he produced the precious box of cigars that was opened only on occasions of moment. “Have one on me,” he said to Chris, to Jimmy Providence, to Lookoovar, and to Mahtsonza.
Later, as Chris was serving the custom that had transferred itself back to him, on taking down the box of chips, he caught sight of the notice on the label, and he laughed afresh.
- Danger. Celluloid. Do not store near steam pipes or furnace flues.
On a morning in February Dave Rennie and Chris McKeand were once more seated by the air-tight stove. In the meantime a striking change had taken place in the aspect of the French outfit's little store. The shelves, the counter, and the walls were swept clean of goods. There was not so much as a pail of lard or a last summer's hat remaining. Chris' limited personal belongings lay packed and roped on the floor ready to be loaded on his sledge. Chris himself was in a state of jerky exhilaration.
He played a series of arpeggios on the concertina. “Going home!” he burst out. “I wish I knew a song about it! If I have any luck I'll catch the mail out from the fort. I'll be out side before the ice moves. I'll telegraph her from the lake that I'm coming after her. They'll have to give me a post now where I can take her!”
Dave smoked sympathetically.
Chris' thoughts took a fresh turn. “Why in thunder do you suppose the redskins don't come up to cash in their chips?” he exclaimed.
Springing up, he went to the door to look out. Dave cautiously picked up the concertina, and started to play “Home, Sweet Home,” with true feeling, if somewhat halting execution.
“Not a man in sight!” said Chris, coming back.
“Most of them went back to the fur camps before daylight,” said Dave quietly.
“I know,” said Chris. “Doesn't it beat the Dutch! Here for two months they fight like politicians over the singing box, and then, just before the time comes to decide it, every man jack loses interest, and they haven't even got the curiosity to come and see who wins it. Who could understand the beggars?”
“Who do you think has won it?” asked Dave, still attending closely to the concerting.
“Who knows?” said Chris, with a shrug. “Jimmy Providence is credited with the most chips, but it's not so simple as that. Why, the scheme hadn't been working a week before they were all dealing in chips among themselves. And when Aleck came back after taking the first lot of my fur to the fort, he taught 'em how to play met-o-wan, and after that whole fortunes in chips changed hands every night.”
“And the chips were used for their original purpose, after all,” put in Dave.
“It all helped me,” said Chris. “Even after my goods gave out they kept bringing me their best fur, and I gave 'em credit for next season, and handed over the chips.”
“Yes, darn you!” said Dave amiably.
“And then, a week ago, when the last crowd came in from the camps, the lot your family came back with, instead of the boost I had a right to expect, the whole business went flat. There was a sudden tightness in the chip market. The chips simply disappeared. I couldn't get any back in exchange for certificates, no matter what premium I offered. Jimmy, Lookoovar, Mahtsonza, Aleck, they all swore they had none, and all had lost interest in the singing box. So I decided there was nothing to do but close up. I wouldn't get to understand these beggars in a hundred years!”
“They're too simple for you,” remarked Dave sententiously.
Chris sprang up again. “I'm not going to wait any longer for them,” he cried. “What'll I do with the pesky instrument?”
Dave joined him by the counter. “I'll take it,” he said, in his quiet way.
“You!” said Chris, astonished.
Dave thrust a hand inside his shirt, and, drawing forth a soiled canvas bag, dropped it on the counter. From within came the unmistakable click of the celluloid disks. From the same hiding place he produced another bag, and still another.
“You'll find 'em all there except a few that were lost,” he said, with a conscientious air. “And here are the certificates you issued for those they brought back.” He pulled a bunch of papers from his pocket.
“Well, I'm jiggered!” said Chris. He repeated this with variations in several keys. “How did you get them?” he demanded.
“Traded for 'em with some of the fur my family brought in,” said Dave seriously. He was feeling for the notes of “As Long as the Congo” on the concertina. “It was my own to do what I liked with. I'll tell you, kid, if it's any satisfaction to you, it's the first time in the history of the Company that a Hudson's Bay man ever let any fur get away from him.”
Chris laughed. “I bet it cost you a pretty penny,” he said.
Dave smiled at last. “Not too much,” he said softly. “Seems it's been going the rounds lately that the singing box was bewitched, as you might say.”
This work is in the public domain in the United States because it was published before January 1, 1929.
The longest-living author of this work died in 1944, so this work is in the public domain in countries and areas where the copyright term is the author's life plus 79 years or less. This work may be in the public domain in countries and areas with longer native copyright terms that apply the rule of the shorter term to foreign works.
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