: 'Bam-by old man Gaviller tak' our shirts! He got
everyt'ing else.' They ask my fat'er w'at to do."

Tole went on: "Always my fat'er say: 'Wait,' he say. 'We got get white
man on our side. We got get white man who knows all outside ways. He
bring an outfit in and trade wit' us.' The people don't want to wait.
'We starve!' they say.

"My fat'er say: '_Non_! Gaviller not let you starve. For why, because
you not bring him any fur if you dead. He will keep you goin' poor.
Be patient,' my fat'er say. 'This is rich country. It is known
outside. Bam-by some white man come wit' outfit and pay good prices.'

"Always my fat'er try to have no trouble," continued Tole. "But old
man Gaviller hear about the meetings at our house. He hear everyt'ing.
He write a letter to my fat'er that the men mus' come no more.

"My fat'er write back. My fat'er say: 'This my house. This people my
relations, my friends. My door is open to all.' Then old man Gaviller
is mad. He call my fat'er mal-content. He tak' away his discount."

"Discount?" interrupted Ambrose.

Tole frowned at the difficulty of explaining this in English. "All
goods in the store marked by prices," he said slowly. "Too moch
prices. Gaviller say for good men and good hunters he tak' part of
price away. He tak' a quarter part of price away. He call that
discount. If a man mak' him mad he put it back again."

The working out of such a scheme was clear to Ambrose. "Hm!" he
commented grimly. "This is how a monopoly gets in its innings."

"Always my fat'er not want any trouble," Tole went on. "Pretty soon, I
t'ink, the people not listen to him no more. They are mad. This year
there will be trouble about the grain. Gaviller put the price down to
dollar-fifty bushel. But he sell flour the same."

"Do you mean to say he buys your grain at his own price, and sells you
back the flour at his own price?" demanded Ambrose.

Tole nodded. "My fat'er the first farmer here," he explained. "Long
tam ago when I was little boy, Gaviller come to my fat'er. He say:
'You have plenty good land. You grow wheat and I grind it, and both
mak' money.'

"My fat'er say: 'I got no plow, no binder, no thresher.' Gaviller say:
'I bring them in for you.' Gaviller say: 'I pay you two-fifty bushel
for wheat. I can do it up here. You pay me for the machines a little
each year.'

"My fat'er t'ink about it. He is not moch for farm. But he t'ink,
well, some day the