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At the same instant memory stirred within me; a vague recollection of those heavy, black eyes, of that broad, bow-legged figure set me pondering. "Me fri'nd," purred Murphy, persuasively, "is th' Frinch thrappers balin' August peltry f'r to sell in Canady?" "I've a few late pelts from the lakes," muttered the man, without looking up. "Domned late," cried Murphy, gayly.
"Nothing, sir; we only want to see them pelts, Tim and me." "Do you know the man?" I demanded. Murphy gazed musingly at Mount through narrowed eyes. Mount, in a brown study, stared back. "Phwere th' divil have I seen him, I dunnoa!" muttered Murphy. "Jack, 'tis wan mush-rat looks like th' next, an' all thrappers has the same cut to them! Yonder's no thrapper!"
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