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 followed by their guide, the half-breed started slightly, then shook hands with the newcomers. Shortly the still hungry men were doing justice to the cooking of the factor's wife while the Frenchman tied the dogs inside the stockade, where they were safe from attack by the Company huskies, and fed them from the post's supply of whitefish.

Later the clerk found Bolton smoking in the factor's quarters.

"You come from de Gatineau country?" offered the half-breed, taking a chair and lighting his pipe.

"Yes, we left the post at Squaw Lake three weeks ago," replied Bolton.

"A-hah, you go far! It ees bad mont' to travel for de beeg win'."

"We are bound for Abitibi, but we had to shoot a dog and may not get a team. Could you sell us two dogs?"

"We got no dog to sell, but"—the clerk winked one of his small, beady eyes—"maybe you don' go to Abitibi, Meester Bolton."

Ignoring the remark, Bolton looked long at the breed, then said:

"We stood a pretty good chance of not making this place; we were starved out and heading north, but by luck this Frenchman Pierre heard our shot when we killed one of the dogs."

"Pierre?" The clerk raised his eyebrows and smiled.

"Yes, Pierre. What's the matter?"