great bearskin coat. He glanced at Rasmunsen curiously, then
stopped and ran a speculative eye over the dogs and the three
lashed sleds.
“What you got?” he asked.
“Eggs,” Rasmunsen answered huskily, hardly able to pitch his voice
above a whisper.
“Eggs! Whoopee! Whoopee!” He sprang up into the air, gyrated
madly, and finished with half-a-dozen war steps. “You don’t say–
all of ’em?”
“All of ’em.”
“Say, you must be the Egg Man.” He walked around and viewed
Rasmunsen from the other side. “Come, now, ain’t you the Egg Man?”
Rasmunsen didn’t know, but supposed he was, and the man sobered
down a bit.
“What d’ye expect to get for ’em?” he asked cautiously.
Rasmunsen became audacious. “Dollar ‘n a half,” he said.
“Done!” the man came back promptly. “Gimme a dozen.”
“I–I mean a dollar ‘n a half apiece,” Rasmunsen hesitatingly
explained.
“Sure. I heard you. Make it two dozen. Here’s the dust.”
The man pulled out a healthy gold sack the size of a small sausage
and knocked it negligently against the gee-pole. Rasmunsen felt a
strange trembling in the pit of his stomach, a tickling of the
nostrils, and an almost overwhelming desire to sit down and cry.
But a curious, wide-eyed crowd was beginning to collect, and man
after man was calling out for eggs. He was without scales, but the
man with the bearskin coat fetched a pair and obligingly weighed in
the dust while Rasmunsen passed out the goods. Soon there was a
pushing and shoving and shouldering, and a great clamour.
Everybody wanted to buy and to be served first. And as the
excitement grew, Rasmunsen cooled down. This would never do.
There must be something behind the fact of their buying so eagerly.
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57
It would be wiser if he rested first and sized up the market.
Perhaps eggs were worth two dollars apiece. Anyway, whenever he
wished to sell, he was sure of a dollar and a half. “Stop!” he
cried, when a couple of hundred had been sold. “No more now. I’m
played out. I’ve got to get a cabin, and then you can come and see
me.”
A groan went up at this, but the man with the bearskin coat
approved. Twenty-four of the frozen eggs went rattling in his
capacious pockets, and he didn’t care whether the rest of the town
ate or not. Besides, he could see Rasmunsen was on his last legs.
“There’s a cabin right around the second corner from the Monte
Carlo,” he told him–“the one with the sody-bottle window. It
ain’t mine, but I’ve got charge of it. Rents for ten a day and
cheap for the money. You move right in, and I’ll see you later.
Don’t forget the sody-bottle window.”
“Tra-la-loo!” he called back a moment later. “I’m goin’ up the
hill to eat eggs and dream of home.”
On his way to the cabin, Rasmunsen recollected he was hungry and
bought a small supply of provisions at the N. A. T. & T. store–
also a beefsteak at the butcher shop and dried salmon for the dogs.
He found the cabin without difficulty, and left the dogs in the
harness while he started the fire and got the coffee under way.
A dollar ‘n a half apiece–one thousand dozen–eighteen thousand
dollars!” he kept muttering it to himself, over and over, as he
went about his work.
As he flopped the steak into the frying-pan the door opened. He
turned. It was the man with the bearskin coat. He seemed to come
in with determination, as though bound on some explicit errand, but
as he looked at Rasmunsen an expression of perplexity came into his
face.
“I say–now I say–” he began, then halted.
Rasmunsen wondered if he wanted the rent.
“I say, damn it, you know, them eggs is bad.”
Rasmunsen staggered. He felt as though some one had struck him an
astounding blow between the eyes. The walls of the cabin reeled
and tilted up. He put out his hand to steady himself and rested it
on the stove. The sharp pain and the smell of the burning flesh
brought him back to himself.
“I see,” he said slowly, fumbling in his pocket for the sack. “You
want your money back.”
“It ain’t the money,” the man said, “but hain’t you got any eggs–
good?”
Rasmunsen shook his head. “You’d better take the money.”
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58
But the man refused and backed away. “I’ll come back,” he said,
“when you’ve taken stock, and get what’s comin’.”
Rasmunsen rolled the chopping-block into the cabin and carried in
the eggs. He went about it quite calmly. He took up the hand-axe,
and, one by one, chopped the eggs in half. These halves he
examined carefully and let fall to the floor. At first he sampled
from the different cases, then deliberately emptied one case at a
time. The heap on the floor grew larger. The coffee boiled over
and the smoke of the burning beefsteak filled the cabin. He
chopped steadfastly and monotonously till the last case was
finished.
Somebody knocked at the door, knocked again, and let himself in.
“What a mess!” he remarked, as he paused and surveyed the scene.
The severed eggs were beginning to thaw in the heat of the stove,
and a miserable odour was growing stronger.
“Must a-happened on the steamer,” he suggested.
Rasmunsen looked at him long and blankly.
“I’m Murray, Big Jim Murray, everybody knows me,” the man
volunteered. “I’m just hearin’ your eggs is rotten, and I’m
offerin’ you two hundred for the batch. They ain’t good as salmon,
but still they’re fair scoffin’s for dogs.”
Rasmunsen seemed turned to stone. He did not move. “You go to
hell,” he said passionlessly.
“Now just consider. I pride myself it’s a decent price for a mess
like that, and it’s better ‘n nothin’. Two hundred. What you
say?”
“You go to hell,” Rasmunsen repeated softly, “and get out of here.”
Murray gaped with a great awe, then went out carefully, backward,
with his eyes fixed an the other’s face.
Rasmunsen followed him out and turned the dogs loose. He threw
them all the salmon he had bought, and coiled a sled-lashing up in
his hand. Then he re-entered the cabin and drew the latch in after
him. The smoke from the cindered steak made his eyes smart. He
stood on the bunk, passed the lashing over the ridge-pole, and
measured the swing-off with his eye. It did not seem to satisfy,
for he put the stool on the bunk and climbed upon the stool. He
drove a noose in the end of the lashing and slipped his head
through. The other end he made fast. Then he kicked the stool out
from under.
THE MARRIAGE OF LIT-LIT
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59
When John Fox came into a country where whisky freezes solid and
may be used as a paper-weight for a large part of the year, he came
without the ideals and illusions that usually hamper the progress
of more delicately nurtured adventurers. Born and reared on the
frontier fringe of the United States, he took with him into Canada
a primitive cast of mind, an elemental simplicity and grip on
things, as it were, that insured him immediate success in his new
career. From a mere servant of the Hudson Bay Company, driving a
paddle with the voyageurs and carrying goods on his back across the
portages, he swiftly rose to a Factorship and took charge of a
trading post at Fort Angelus.
Here, because of his elemental simplicity, he took to himself a
native wife, and, by reason of the connubial bliss that followed,
he escaped the unrest and vain longings that curse the days of more
fastidious men, spoil their work, and conquer them in the end. He
lived contentedly, was at single purposes with the business he was
set there to do, and achieved a brilliant record in the service of
the Company. About this time his wife died, was claimed by her
people, and buried with savage circumstance in a tin trunk in the
top of a tree.
Two sons she had borne him, and when the Company promoted him, he
journeyed with them still deeper into the vastness of the North-
West Territory to a place called Sin Rock, where he took charge of
a new post in a more important fur field. Here he spent several
lonely and depressing months, eminently disgusted with the
unprepossessing appearance of the Indian maidens, and greatly
worried by his growing sons who stood in need of a mother’s care.
Then his eyes chanced upon Lit-lit.
“Lit-lit–well, she is Lit-lit,” was the fashion in which he
despairingly described her to his chief clerk, Alexander McLean.
McLean was too fresh from his Scottish upbringing–“not dry behind
the ears yet,” John Fox put it–to take to the marriage customs of
the country. Nevertheless he was not averse to the Factor’s