"
"Air ye a half-breed?"
"No, I'm a Yank; my name is Kittering; born and bred in Redding,
Connecticut."
"Well, I swan, ye look it. At fust I took ye fur an Injun; ye did
look dark (and Rolf laughed inside, as he thought of that
butternut dye), but I'm bound to say we're glad yer white."
"Here, Bill, this is Rolf, Rolf Kittering, he'll go with ye to
Albany." Bill, a loose-jointed, middle-aged, flat-footed, large-
handed, semi-loafer, with keen gray eyes, looked up from a bundle
he was roping.
Then Warren took Rolf aside and explained: "I'm sending down all
my fur this trip. There's ten bales of sixty pounds each, pretty
near my hull fortune. I want it took straight to Vandam's, and,
night or day, don't leave it till ye git it there. He's close to
the dock. I'm telling ye this for two reasons: The river's
swarming with pirates and sneaks. They'd like nothing better
than to get away with a five-hundred-dollar bundle of fur; and,
next, while Bill is A1 on the river and true as steel, he's awful
weak on the liquor; goes crazy, once it's in him. And I notice
you've always refused it here. So don't stop at Troy, an' when ye
get to Albany go straight past there to Vandam's.
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