FRANCOIS AT THE LANDING 233 



When the Half-breed had completed his pur 

 chase, the Factor tossed him a large plug of 

 smoking tobacco, which was the usual terminal 

 act of a deal in goods in any of the Company s 

 posts. 



Frar^ois filled his pipe, sat down by the hot 

 box-stove with its roaring fire of dry Poplar- 

 wood, and smoked, and spat, and dilated upon 

 the severity of the blizzard, and regaled the other 

 occupants of the Trading Post with stories of 

 Wolverine s depredations. Suddenly he ceased 

 speaking, held the pipe in his hand hesitatingly, 

 and straightened his head up in a listening atti 

 tude. The deep, sonorous, monotonous &quot;turn- 

 turn, turn-turn, turn-turn &quot; of a gambling outfit s 

 drum-music came sleepily to his acute listening 

 ear. It was like a blast from the huntsman s 

 horn to a fox-hound ; it tingled in his blood, and 

 sent a longing creeping through his veins. 



cc There goes that Nichie outfit from Slave 

 Lake again,&quot; cried the Factor, angrily. &quot; They ve 

 gambled for three nights ; if the police were here 

 I d have a stop put to it.&quot; 



Fran9ois tried to close his ears to the coaxing, 

 throbbing, skin-covered tambourine the gambling 

 party s music-maker was hammering that still, 

 frosty night ; but his hearing only became acuter, 

 for it centred more and more on the thing he 



