  It was a gala day at the trading post of Walter McClaren, Hudson’s Bay Factor; a day for feasting and story-telling. For Dick Kent and Sandy McClaren had come back from the far north. In the big dining room the factor’s old Indian housekeeper and cook hovered about a long table loaded with the best products of her culinary art. Her stoic face could scarcely conceal the pleasure she derived from witnessing the seemingly insatiable appetites of her master’s nephew and his chum. Walter McClaren, a big florid Scotchman, sat at the head of the table beaming upon the boys and recalling his own boyhood days. He believed boys should have plenty of excitement and outdoor experience, and as he listened to the ceaseless recounting of their recent adventures with the Eskimos, his smile grew broader and broader, while the roast turkey and dressing vanished along with sweet potatoes, pumpkin pie, stewed cranberries, and chocolate pudding. “We just caught the boat going south,” Dick said between bites. “If we’d been a day later we’d have been held up more than a month before another boat came.” “I think you fellows have been pretty lucky,” rejoined Sandy’s uncle. “If I’d known for a minute what I was sending you into, I’d never let you go.” “But I’m glad we went,” returned Sandy. “I wouldn’t go through it again for anything, but just the same after it’s all over, I wouldn’t trade the experience for—for a commission in the mounted police.” “That just reminds me that from what Inspector Dunbar says, you fellows are slated for some kind of a special medal or something for your services in the Arctic.” “Medals!” Dick was alive in an instant, his half-eaten turkey drum stick forgotten for the moment. “You don’t mean that, Uncle Sandy!” “Well, it must be a fact, if Inspector Dunbar said so,” replied the factor. “But that’s not just exactly what I want to discuss with you fellows,” continued the old Scotchman, knocking out his pipe on a leg of his chair and refilling it. “I have a proposition for you.” “A proposition!” exclaimed Dick. “What is it now. A lost mine? Buried treasure? Outlaws? Missing men?” “Hurry up. Tell us what it really is,” Sandy exclaimed, alive with interest. “Well, you’ll have to give me a chance to talk then,” Mr. McClaren came back patiently. “And Dick hasn’t guessed what the proposition is. It’s not as profitable as lost mines or buried treasure, nor as dangerous as hunting outlaws, but more entertaining than hunting missing men. There’s money in it, some excitement and a chance to make good with one of the greatest organizations in the world.” Dick and Sandy were begging now, for their interest certainly had been intrigued. So engrossed had they become in what the proposition was going to be that they even forgot to eat, sitting there with their mouths open and loaded fork half suspended. “The proposition is this,” the factor stated. “I’m thinking of starting a branch fur-trading post near Great Slave Lake and I need some enterprising ambitious men to help out. There’s some bad competition—a free trader in that region, but I think he’ll be some careful what he does to any of the Hudson’s Bay Company men.” “Gee, do you want us to be fur-traders?” Sandy interrogated. “That’s about the size of it, boys,” Sandy’s uncle replied. “I’m sending one man up who is an expert on furs, and there’ll be a mounted police post established there. You boys can help with the trading, and can hunt and fish and trap all you like. It will be a real vacation from the hard job you had in the Arctic.” “It’s beginning to look good to me already,” Dick spoke eagerly. “What do you say, Sandy?” “I’m for it if you are,” replied Dick’s chum, “and we can take Toma along.” The young Indian who had remained impassive during the conversation, brightened at Sandy’s words and his dusky face was split by a huge grin. He had been afraid of being left out of the plans and was now much relieved. The factor signaled the old Indian housekeeper. “Pour us all some more coffee,” he directed. “I’m going to propose a toast.” Dick and Sandy exchanged glances. What was the toast going to be, they wondered. When the coffee cups were all filled and creamed and sugared, the old factor stood up and the boys did likewise. Lifting his cup high over his head, Mr. McClaren said: “Here’s to the health of Dick Kent, fur trader, and may he never buy a pelt that sheds or trade a rifle for a black cat’s hide thinking it’s a black fox skin.” The boys burst out laughing, but touched cups with Sandy’s uncle and drank the toast. “Now let me give a toast,” Dick spoke up. “Go ahead,” Mr. McClaren agreed. Assuming a gallant pose, Dick upraised his cup and said solemnly: “Here’s to Factor McClaren the best sport in the world and the jolliest bachelor.” It was Walter McClaren’s turn to laugh, and his big voice shook the very log beams of the dining room. Sandy was about to propose another toast, when there came a knock at the door. The factor motioned the housekeeper to open the door. All eyes turned to see the visitor. Into the living room of the cabin stamped a tall man, resplendent in the scarlet coat of the mounted. “Hello there, Corporal McCarthy,” shouted the boys, recognizing the leader of their recent expedition. The Corporal paused in the doorway leading into the dining room. He returned the boys’ greetings in kind, then drew himself up to attention, proudly displaying the medals on his chest, and saluted: “Inspector Dunbar requests the presence of Dick Kent and Sandy McClaren,” announced the Corporal solemnly and impressively, “for presentation of special decorations in reward for their Arctic services with the Royal Northwest Mounted Police!” Dick whistled, Sandy gasped, and both blushed, then Corporal McCarthy came around and shook their hands, slapping them on the back heartily, while Sandy’s uncle added his sincere congratulations. “But what about Toma?” Dick asked the Corporal, when he had recovered from his embarrassment. “Is he left out?” “S-s-h. The Inspector has a surprise for him,” whispered the Corporal. “A brand new 22 High Power rifle.” So did the King’s policemen make happy hearts of their loyal and daring young servants. THE END |
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