When John McNabb read Wentworth’s report, he reached for his telephone and called Detroit.  “That you, Beekman?” he asked, recognizing the voice of the senior partner of one of the foremost engineering firms in the country.  “How about you—­all set for that Gods Lake job?  Just got the preliminary report.  Everything O. K. Plenty of water, plenty of head, and we can get it without spreading the reservoir over the whole country.  Hustle that road through as fast as you can.  Hundred miles of it—­only about eight or ten miles of swamp.  We can truck the material in quicker than by shipping it clear around through the Bay and track-lining it up the river.  Few small bridges, and one motor ferry.  Make it good for heavy work.  Put on men enough to complete the road in a month at the outside.  Most if it will only be clearing out timber and stumps.  As soon as the road is done we’ll begin to shoot in the cement.  Get at it on the jump now, an’ I’ll see you in a day or two.”

The days following the return of Wentworth and Hedin from the survey of the rapids were busy ones at the little post on Gods Lake.  For it was the time of the spring trading, and from far and near came the men of the outlands, bringing in their harvest of fur.

The post flag floated gaily at the staff head, and in the broad clearing about its base were pitched the tepees of the fur bringers.

Each rising sun brought additional wilderness gleaners from afar, and additional children, and many additional starving dogs.  For these days were the gala days of the Northland; days of high feast and plenty, of boastings, and recountings, and the chanting of weird chants.

The crudity, the primitive savagery of the scene gripped Hedin as nothing had gripped him before.  He was astonished that the setting held for him so little of surprise.  He fitted into the life naturally and perfectly as though to the manner born.  But his own astonishment was as nothing as compared to the astonishment of Murchison, who stood close as Hedin broke open and sorted the packs of fur.  Time and again his swift appraisal of a skin won a nod of approval from the factor, who received the skins from his hands and paid for them in tokens of made beaver.

“I do not understand it,” said Murchison, between puffs of his pipe, as at the end of a day he and Hedin sat in the doorway of the trading room and watched the yellow flames from a hundred campfires stab the black darkness of the night, and send wavering shadows playing in grotesque patterns upon the walls of the tepees.  The harsh din of the encampment all but drowned the factor’s words, and Hedin smiled.

“Do not understand what?” he asked.

“’Tis yourself I do not understand.  Ye’ve never handled raw fur, yet in the handling of thirty packs I have not changed the rating of a skin.  By your own word, ’tis your first venture into the North, yet since the day of your coming ye have behaved like a man of the North.  The Indians distrust a new-comer.  They are slow to place confidence in any white man.  An’ yet, they have accepted your judgment of fur without question.  An’ a good half of them ye call by name.  ’Tis a combination unheard of, an’ to be believed only when one sees it.”