Rolf in the Woods

But Bill was swamped by no such emotion. Albany, Hudson, Clermont, and all, were familiar stories to him and he stolidly headed the canoe for the dock he knew of old.

Loafers roosting on the snubbing posts hailed him, at first with raillery; but, coming nearer, he was recognized. “Hello, Bill; back again? Glad to see you,” and there was superabundant help to land the canoe.

“Wall, wall, wall, so it’s really you,” said the touter of a fur house, in extremely friendly voice; “come in now and we’ll hev a drink.”

“No, sir-ree,” said Bill decisively, “I don’t drink till business is done.”

“Wall, now, Bill, here’s Van Roost’s not ten steps away an’ he hez tapped the finest bar’l in years.”

“No, I tell ye, I’m not drinking — now.”

“Wall, all right, ye know yer own business. I thought maybe ye’d be glad to see us.”

“Well, ain’t I?”

“Hello, Bill,” and Bill’s fat brother-in-law came up. “Thus does me good, an’ yer sister is spilin’ to see ye. We’ll hev one on this.”

“No, Sam, I ain’t drinkin’; I’ve got biz to tend.”

“Wall, hev just one to clear yer head. Then settle yer business and come back to us.”

So Bill went to have one to clear his head. “I’ll be back in two minutes, Rolf,” but Rolf saw him no more for many days.

“You better come along, cub,” called out a red-nosed member of the group. But Rolf shook his head.

“Here, I’ll help you git them ashore,” volunteered an effusive stranger, with one eye.

“I don’t want help.”

“How are ye gain’ to handle ’em alone?”

“Well, there’s one thing I’d be glad to have ye do; that is, go up there and bring Peter Vandam.”

“I’ll watch yer stuff while you go.”

“No, I can’t leave.” “Then go to blazes; d’yte take me for yer errand boy?” And Rolf was left alone.

He was green at the business, but already he was realizing the power of that word fur and the importance of the peltry trade. Fur was the one valued product of the wilderness that only the hunter could bring. The merchants of the world were as greedy for fur as for gold, and far more so than for precious stones.

It was a commodity so light that, even in those days, a hundred weight of fur might range in value from one hundred to five thousand dollars, so that a man with a pack of fine furs was a capitalist. The profits of the business were good for trapper, very large for the trader, who doubled his first gain by paying in trade; but they were huge for the Albany middleman, and colossal for the New Yorker who shipped to London.

With such allurements, it was small wonder that more country was explored and opened for fur than for settlement or even for gold; and there were more serious crimes and high-handed robberies over the right to trade a few furs than over any other legitimate business. These things were new to Rolf within the year, but he was learning the lesson, and Warren’s remarks about fur stuck in his memory with growing value. Every incident since the trip began had given them new points.

The morning passed without sign of Bill; so, when in the afternoon, some bare-legged boys came along, Rolf said to them: “Do any of ye know where Peter Vandam’s house is?”

“Yeh, that’s it right there,” and they pointed to a large log house less than a hundred yards away.

“Do ye know him?”

“Yeh, he’s my paw,” said a sun-bleached freckle-face.

“If you bring him here right away, I’ll give you a dime. Tell him I’m from Warren’s with a cargo.”

The dusty stampede that followed was like that of a mustang herd, for a dime was a dime in those days. And very soon, a tall, ruddy man appeared at the dock. He was a Dutchman in name only. At first sight he was much like the other loafers, but was bigger, and had a more business-like air when observed near at hand.

“Are you from Warren’s?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Alone?”

“No, sir. I came with Bill Bymus. But he went off early this morning; I haven’t seen him since. I’m afraid he’s in trouble.”

“Where’d he go?”

“In there with some friends.”

“Ha, just like him; he’s in trouble all right. He’ll be no good for a week. Last time he came near losing all our stuff. Now let’s see what ye’ve got.”

“Are you Mr. Peter Vandam?”

“Of course I am.”

Still Rolf looked doubtful. There was a small group around, and Rolf heard several voices, “Yes, this is Peter; ye needn’t a-worry.” But Rolf knew none of the speakers. His look of puzzlement at first annoyed then tickled the Dutchman, who exploded into a hearty guffaw.

“Wall, wall, you sure think ill of us. Here, now look at that,” and he drew out a bundle of letters addressed to Master Peter Vandam. Then he displayed a gold watch inscribed on the back “Peter Vandam”; next he showed a fob seal with a scroll and an inscription, “Petrus Vandamus”; then he turned to a youngster and said, “Run, there is the Reverend Dr. Powellus, he may help us”; so the black-garbed, knee-breached, shovel-hatted clergyman came and pompously said: “Yes, my young friend, without doubt you may rest assured that this is our very estimable parishioner, Master Peter Vandam; a man well accounted in the world of trade.”