In ten minutes we
were seated chair-tilted on the veranda, and slowly, very cautiously,
in abbreviated syncopation, were feeling our way toward an intimacy.
Now came the Indians I had seen at the lake to barter for some flour
and pork. I was glad of the chance to follow them all into the
trading-room. A low wooden counter backed by a grill divided the main
body of the room from the entrance. It was deliciously dim. All the
charm of the Aromatic Shop was in the place, and an additional flavour
of the wilds. Everything here was meant for the Indian trade: bolts of
bright-patterned ginghams, blankets of red or blue, articles of
clothing, boxes of beads for decoration, skeins of brilliant silk, lead
bars for bullet-making, stacks of long brass-bound "trade guns" in the
corner, small mirrors, red and parti-coloured worsted sashes with
tassels on the ends, steel traps of various sizes, and a dozen other
articles to be desired by the forest people. And here, unlike the
Aromatic Shop, were none of the products of the Far North. All that, I
knew, was to be found elsewhere, in another apartment, equally dim, but
delightful in the orderly disorder of a storeroom.
Afterwards I made the excuse of a pair of moccasins to see this other
room. We climbed a steep, rough flight of stairs to emerge through a
sort of trap-door into a space directly under the roof. It was lit only
by a single little square at one end. Deep under the eaves I could make
out row after row of boxes and chests.
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