," he said.

"Get a light from the fire like you did before, you old fraud! I only
have a few left."

"Match," repeated the Indian, and Bill passed over his match-box, which
was placed with the other items. Wabishke pointed toward the pack-sack.

"Look here, you red Yankee!" exclaimed Bill. "Do you want my whole
outfit for those things?"

The other merely shrugged and pointed first at the bandaged feet, and
then at the boots. One by one, a can of salmon, a sheath-knife, and a
blue flannel shirt were added to the pile, and still Wabishke seemed
unsatisfied.

While the Indian pawed over the various articles of his pack, Bill
found time to put the finished touches on his bandages, and, reaching
under the table, drew forth the whisky bottle and poured part of its
contents upon the strips of cloth.

At the sight of the bottle the Indian's eyes brightened, and he reached
for it quickly. Bill shook his head and set the bottle well out of his
reach.

"Me drink," the other insisted, and again Bill shook his head. The
Indian seemed puzzled.

"No like?" he asked.

"No like," repeated Bill, and smiled grimly.

Wabishke regarded him in wondering silence. In his life he had seen
many strange things, but never a thing like this--a white man who of
his own choice drank spring-water from a fish-can and poured good
whisky upon his feet!

The Indian's eyes wandered from the pile of goods to the bottle, in
which about one-fourth of the contents remained, and realized that he
was at a disadvantage, for he knew by experience that a white man and
his whisky are hard to part.

Selecting the can of salmon from the pile, he shoved it toward the man,
who again shook his head. Then followed the match-box, the
sheath-knife, and the shirt, until only the tobacco-box and the boots
remained, and still the man shook his head.

Slowly the tobacco-box was handed back, and the Indian was eying the
boots. Bill laughed.

"No. You'll need those. Just hand over the moccasins, and you are
welcome to the boots and the booze."

The Indian hastily untied the thongs, and the white man thrust his
bandaged feet into the soft comfort of the mooseskin moccasins. A few
minutes later he took the trail, following the windings of Moncrossen's
new tote-road into the North.

The air was filled with a light, feathery snow, and, in spite of the
ache of his stiffened muscles, he laughed.

"The first bottle of whisky _I_ ever entered on the right side of