ed out a red-nosed member of the
group. But Rolf shook his head.

"Here, I'll help you git them ashore," volunteered an effusive stranger,
with one eye.

"I don't want help."

"How are ye gain' to handle 'em alone?"

"Well, there's one thing I'd be glad to have ye do; that is, go up there
and bring Peter Vandam."

"I'll watch yer stuff while you go."

"No, I can't leave." "Then go to blazes; d'yte take me for yer errand
boy?" And Rolf was left alone.

He was green at the business, but already he was realizing the power of
that word fur and the importance of the peltry trade. Fur was the one
valued product of the wilderness that only the hunter could bring. The
merchants of the world were as greedy for fur as for gold, and far more
so than for precious stones.

It was a commodity so light that, even in those days, a hundred weight
of fur might range in value from one hundred to five thousand dollars,
so that a man with a pack of fine furs was a capitalist. The profits
of the business were good for trapper, very large for the trader, who
doubled his first gain by paying in trade; but they were huge for the
Albany middleman, and colossal for the New Yorker who shipped to London.

With such allurements, it was small wonder that more country was
explored and opened for fur than for settlement or even for gold; and
there were more serious crimes and high-handed robberies over the right
to trade a few furs than over any other legitimate business. These
things were new to Rolf within the year, but he was learning the lesson,
and Warren's remarks about fur stuck in his memory with growing value.
Every incident since the trip began had given them new points.

The morning passed without sign of Bill; so, when in the afternoon, some
bare-legged boys came along, Rolf said to them: "Do any of ye know where
Peter Vandam's house is?"

"Yeh, that's it right there," and they pointed to a large log house less
than a hundred yards away.

"Do ye know him?"

"Yeh, he's my paw," said a sun-bleached freckle-face.

"If you bring him here right away, I'll give you a dime. Tell him I'm
from Warren's with a cargo."

The dusty stampede that followed was like that of a mustang herd, for a
dime was a dime in those days. And very soon, a tall, ruddy man appeared
at the dock. He was a Dutchman in name only. At first sight he was much
like the other loafers, but was bigger, and had a more business-like air
when observed near at hand.