You'll have a
letter that'll explain, and he'll supply the goods yer to bring back.
He's a sort of a partner, and orders from him is same as from me.
"I suppose I ought to go myself, but this is the time all the fur
is coming in here, an' I must be on hand to do the dickering, and
there's too much much to risk it any longer in the storehouse."
"Suppose," said Rolf, "Bill wants to stop at Troy?"
"He won't. He's all right, given he's sober. I've give him the
letter."
"Couldn't you give me the letter, in case?"
"Law, Bill'd get mad and quit."
"He'll never know."
"That's so; I will." So when they paddled away, Bill had an
important letter of instructions ostentatiously tucked in his
outer pocket. Rolf, unknown to any one else but Warren, had a
duplicate, wrapped in waterproof, hidden in an inside pocket.
Bill was A1 on the river; a kind and gentle old woodman, much
stronger than he looked. He knew the value of fur and the danger
of wetting it, so he took no chances in doubtful rapids. This
meant many portages and much hard labour.
I wonder if the world realizes the hard labour of the portage or
carry? Let any man who seeks for light, take a fifty-pound sack
of flour on his shoulders and walk a quarter of a mile on level
ground in cool weather.
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