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Updated: June 3, 2025
"You're my clerk, an' your name's Sven Larson that's a good Scandinavian name an' you don't know nothin' about pulp-wood, nor options. I guess it would be best if we could put him up right here. We could be watchin' him all the while without seemin' to." "I wonder when Wentworth will be here?" speculated Hedin. "There's no tellin'. It's accordin' to the outfit he packs an' the guide he's got.
Sven Hedin rendered invaluable services in this way to the Kaiser and the Fatherland, throwing the glamour of his name over a movement of which the ultimate tendency was national suicide.
Wentworth could trace it descending the stairs, and walking the length of an aisle. Followed the sound of the opening door, and the click of the latch. Some belated department head, he thought. Possibly Hedin, himself and he grinned at the thought. In the silence of the great building Wentworth suddenly realized that he was nervous.
The Indians distrust a new-comer. They are slow to place confidence in any white man. An' yet, they have accepted your judgment of fur without question. An' a good half of them ye call by name. 'Tis a combination unheard of, an' to be believed only when one sees it." "And yet it is very simple," explained Hedin.
She paused abruptly, glanced inquiringly at Hedin, nodded coolly, and continued, "Oskar said it needed a little tailoring, and that I was to bring it down this morning, but I didn't think there was any tearing hurry about it." Her father took the garment, smoothed the fur with his hand, and asked casually, "Is this the coat ye wore from the store?" "Why, of course it is."
He lived at the city's only "family hotel," drove his own modest car, and religiously spent his Sundays on the trout streams. Hedin picked up the coat and reverently deposited it in the fur safe. "It's a coat fit for a queen," he decided as he closed and locked the door. And Jean was the one woman in the world to wear it.
He had been certain that Jean and Hedin would eventually marry, and secretly he longed for the day. He had watched Hedin for years and now, despite the improbability of the story, he believed it implicitly. And it was with a heavy heart that he had watched the studied coldness of each toward the other. McNabb was a man of snap decisions.
"There is no use beating around the bush. As a matter of fact, the Russian sable coat is missing, and I am to blame for it." The old man stared incredulously. "Missin'!" he exclaimed. "An' you're to blame! What d'ye mean?" Hastily, in as few words as possible, Hedin recited the facts as he knew them, while an angry flush mounted to the old man's face.
She had been deeply hurt by Hedin's curt refusal to attend the coasting party, and Wentworth had proved a very luke-warm cavalier. She had started out to be extremely vivacious so all might see that the absence of Hedin was a matter of no concern, but Wentworth's preoccupied manner soon dampened her ardor, until for her the coasting party became a monotonous affair.
Ye numbskull! One of them Yukon stoves. An' be quick about it." "What stuff?" "The stuff that lays outside the door Wentworth's stuff, of course! "In the cabin?" "Yes, in the cabin!" cried the factor impatiently. "Ye didn't think ye was to put it in the stove, did ye?" Hedin moved slowly away in search of the Company Indians, and Wentworth laughed.
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