Ambrose shrugged philosophically.  “You never can tell.”

Presently Alexander came back, his seamy brown face as blank as ever.  He vouchsafed no explanation.  Ambrose affected not to notice him.  He had long since found it to be the best way of getting what he wanted.  The breed squatted on the stones, prepared to wait for the judgment-day, it seemed.

After a while he said with the wary, defiant look of a child beggar who expects to be refused, perhaps cuffed:  “Give me ’not’er piece of bread.”

Ambrose without a word broke his remaining bannock in two and gave him half.  Alexander bolted it with incredible rapidity and sat as before, waiting.

Ambrose, wearying of this, dropped the pelt on his knees, saying:  “Take your black fox.  I cannot trade with you.”

It had the desired effect.  Alexander arose and put the skin inside the tent.  “It is yours,” he said.  “Give me tobacco.”

Ambrose tossed him his pouch.

When the little man got his pipe going, squatting on his heels as before, he told his tale.  “Me spik Angleys no good,” he said, fingering his Adam’s apple, as if the defect was there.  “Las’ winter I ver’ poor.  All tam moch sick in my stummick.  I catch him fine black fox.  Wa!  I say.  I rich now.

“I tak’ him John Gaviller.  Gaviller say:  ’Three hunder twenty dollar in trade.’  Wa!  That is not’in’.  I am sick to hear it.  Already I owe that debt on the book.  Then I am mad.  Gaviller t’ink for because I poor and sick I tak’ little price.  I t’ink no!

“So I tak’ her home.  The men they look at her.  Wa! they say, she is miwasan—­what you say, beauty?  They say, don’ give Gaviller that black fox, Sandy.  He got pay more.  So I keep her.  Gaviller laugh.  He say:  ’You got give me that black fox soon.  I not pay so moch in summer.’”

The apathetic way in which this was told affected Ambrose strongly.  His face reddened with indignation.  The story bore the hall-marks of truth.

Certainly the man’s hunger was not feigned; likewise his eagerness to accept the moderate price Ambrose had offered him was significant.  Ambrose scowled in his perplexity.

“Hanged if I know what to do for you!” he said.  “I’ll give you a receipt for the skin.  I’ll give you a little grub.  Then you go home and stay until I can arrange something.”

Alexander received this as if he had not heard it.

“You hear,” said Ambrose.  “Is that all right?”

“I got go Moultrie,” the little man said stolidly.

“You can’t!” cried Ambrose.

Alexander merely sat like an image.

This was highly exasperating to the white man.  “You’ve got to go home, I tell you,” he cried.

“I not go home,” the native said with strange apathy.  “Gaviller kill me now.”

“Nonsense!” cried Ambrose.  “He has got to respect the law.”