published by Grosset and Dunlap
New York, 1913
Copyright 1913
by W.J. Watt & Company
Published June
“And you accuse me of that?”
Donald McTavish glared down into the heavy, ugly face of hissuperior—a face that concealed behind its mask of dignity emotionsas potent and lasting as the northland that bred them.
“I accuse you of nothing.” Fitzpatrick pawed his white beard. “Ionly know that a great quantity of valuable furs, trapped in yourdistrict, have not been turned in to me here at the factory. It isto explain this discrepancy that I have called you down by dogs inthe dead of winter. Where are those furs?” He looked up out of thegreat chair in which he was sitting, and regarded his inferior withcold insolence. For half an hour now, the interview had been inprogress, half an hour of shame and dismay for McTavish, and thesame amount of satisfaction for the factor.
“I tell you I have no idea where they are,” returned the postcaptain. “So far as I know, the usual number of pelts have beentraded for at the fort. If any have disappeared, it is a matter ofthe white trappers and the Indians, not my affair.”
“Yes,” agreed the other suavely; “but who is in charge of FortDickey?”
“I am.”
“Then, how can you say it is not your affair when the Company islosing twenty thousand pounds a year from your district?”
The young man ground his teeth helplessly, torn between the desireto throttle ugly ol