at the trading post at the junction of the Deer River and Staveley Lake, twenty miles north of Protheroe’s, where they were greeted by Dalgleish’s old friend, Dan Stewart, whom Dalgleish had not seen in a dog’s age. Compliments of Penticton Sawmills Ltd. PENTICTON, B.C. Mc & Mc Hardware—Furniture—China Beatty Barn Equipment and Pumps Case Farm Machinery McLennan, McFeely & Prior PENTICTON, B.C. ——————————— —————————————“N WILKINS MACHINE SHOP Ee & FOUNDRY, LTD. General Machine Work and Motor Reboring Diesel Repairs Phone 331 PENTICTON British Columbia —————————— ———r——— Specialists in Heavy Commercial Equipment WHITE'S GARAGE A Complete Automotive Service Phone 103 PENTICTON British Columbia ee CANADIAN LEGION Be EtosLon - Penticton Branch (B. C. No. 40) N. G. KINCAID, President W. R. HENLEY. Secretary-Treasurer Comfort Service The Three Gables Hotel 45 Rooms 30 ROOMS WITH BATH Penticton, B.C. Page Seventy-six —————————— It was rather a poor post, this at Staveley, just a store really. There were goods on the shelves inside, goods on the counter— canned goods chiefly—and calicoes, shirts, sweaters, silk handkerchiefs of gaudy col- ours, moccasins, heavy socks, and such like cluttered everywhere. The Company’s In- spector had been there a short time before and was not likely to be in again for some months, so Dan Stewart felt he didn’t have to be too punctilious in his chores of keep: ing the store tidy. A stove occupied a large area of the floor space in front of the coun- ter. There was a tiny office at the back from which Dan emerged as the police dogs came to a standstill outside. “Hullo, Dan — shake a leg there,” shouted the sergeant. ‘For the land’s sake.” cried Dan, running forward. “See what the cat’s dragged in. Sergeant Colin Dalgleish as I’m a sainted fur trader.” Dan shook hands with Constable Greene whom he had not met before. “What's the good word, Dan?” asked Dalgleish. Fur TRADER Fep Up _ “There isn’t a good word, Dalgleish. I’ve used them all up. Nothing but bad-uns left, and it’s quiet as hell on a Sunday, if hell can be anything like this. I wonder if it ever gets forty below down there. Say, fellows—make yourselves at home where you should be, and give me all the news. But now I come to think of it, sergeant, hell can’t be such a quiet place after all— so many of you police sleuths have died and gone there since the force was opened and hell put out a welcome sign to all po- licemen.” “Oh, yes!—you old reprobate,” shouted Dalgleish. “Well, I've always understood fur traders had a special hell reserved for them only, with perhaps Company Inspec- tors and Police Officers in charge of the coaling arrangements, and the souls of thousands of skinned foxes, with steel teeth, all red-hot, ready to gnaw the calloused hides off the fur traders as they arrive.” “Stewart shuddered in mock apprehen- sion. “You do say the sweetest things, don’t you, sergeant dear?” “So Til be seeing you there, Dan,” the sergeant added. “Maybe ay—and maybe uh-uh!” commented Dan. “Little man,” softly intoned the sergeant, “How would you like to be Vancouver, or in Seattle right now, at Stacey’s joint?” A seraphic look came into Dan’s wizened face at the thought of it. “How would I like it! Sergeant, four long weary years have passed since you and I trod the bright lights, arm in arm. And the beautiful dancing ladies! Yum-yum!” He turned to Greene. ‘Ah, constable, you're much too young to realize the full portent of an American lady’s ravishing beauty on a simple northwoods fur trader like myself, and a rhinoceros-hided moose like the sergeant there.” He sighed. “But none of the dames ever write to me now,” he lamented. “That's too bad,” replied the sergeant laconically. “But say,” he continued more seriously, “I didn’t happen to see very many Indians on the reservation as we passed through.” “No— you wouldn't. Most of them are supposed to be out on the traplines. Playin’ La Halle, I guess, judging from the small amount of furs they are bringing in, The fact is, serg—the only visitors I get these days are the odd squaw begging for more credit.” Dan struck a dramatic attitude. “Twas ever thus with the noble Red man and his fat and queenly spouse. Just an impe- cunious crowd of plausible mendicants, liv ing from store to stomach, with their stom- achs always several months ahead of the store. “How are you liking the winter patrol up this way, constable? Not so hot—eh what!” “Te is all right, Dan! Fact is, I like it!” “You guys care to have a bite of lunch in the kitchen?” asked Dan. “I’ve been eating for two hours and a half by the clock, just to pass the time—but there’s still some grub left.” “Not a thing, Dan,” said Dalgleish. “We're really on our wey. We fed on the trail an hour ago. Thanks ai! the same!” “Well, youll have a mug of coffee any- way, with a jolt of rum in it?” “Sure thing! Trot it along,” grinned Dalgleish. “That’s part of a policeman’s duty, eh, Greene!” Dan went off into the back kitchen, which lay beyond the office. : “Say, serg.—is Stewart a little bit off?” asked Greene. “You mean goofy? Bats in his belfry?” “Yes! Seems to be focling all the time.” “Believe me, boy!—there’s nothing goofy about Dan Stewart. Try to pass him a lead nickel. Ill bet right now he knows. how many buttons are off your tunic and when your underwear was washed last. He’s one of the shrewdest little traders in the North. That gab is just his line. And unless you're quick on the uptake yourself, you miss a whole lot of Dan’s subtle kid- ding.” Dan returned with two steaming mugs of coffee, and a tumbler half-full of raw rum. He handed the coffee to the two officers. He held up the half-tumbler of rum and grinned in anticipation. Quite all right. THE CO-OPERATIVE FRUIT GROWERS’ ASSOCIATION OF WYNNDEL, B. C. * WYNNDEL, B. C. THE SHOULDER STRAP