Only a thick
hawk nose, an inscrutable pair of black eyes under phenomenally heavy
eyebrows, and a short black pipe showed plainly from the hirsute
tangle. He was lock, stock, and barrel of the Far North, one of the old
_regime_. I was rejoiced to see him there, but did not betray a
glimmer of interest. I knew my type too well for that.
"How are you?" he said grudgingly.
"Good-day," said I.
We leaned against the fence and smoked, each contemplating carefully
the end of his pipe. I knew better than to say anything. The Trader was
looking me over, making up his mind about me. Speech on my part would
argue lightness of disposition, for it would seem to indicate that I
was not also making up my mind about him.
In this pause there was not the least unfriendliness. Only, in the
woods you prefer to know first the business and character of a chance
acquaintance. Afterwards you may ingratiate to his good will. All of
which possesses a beautiful simplicity, for it proves that good or bad
opinion need not depend on how gracefully you can chatter assurances.
At the end of a long period the Trader inquired, "Which way you
headed?"
"Out in a canoe for pleasure. Headed almost anywhere."
Again we smoked.
"Dog any good?" asked the Trader, removing his pipe and pointing to the
observant Deuce.
"He'll hunt shade on a hot day," said I tentatively. "How's the fur in
this district?"
We were off. He invited me in and showed me his bear.
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