"No moccasins," he reported. "Plenty buckskin."

Sam Bolton looked troubled. This meant a delay. However, it could not be
avoided.

"Let the old women make some," he decided.

The Cree old-man shook his head.

"That cannot be. There is not time. We turn our canoes to the
Missináibie by next sun."

Sam pondered again, turning over in his mind this fresh complication.
But Dick, kicking the earth clods in impatience, broke in.

"Well, we're going by the Missináibie, too. Let the women make the
moccasins. We will accompany you."

"That might be," replied the Indian.

"It is well," said Bolton.

An old woman was summoned. She measured her customers' feet with a
buckskin thong. Then they departed without further ceremony. An Indian
rarely says farewell. When his business is finished he goes.

"Dick," said Sam, "you ought not to have broke in there."

"What do you mean?" asked the other, puzzled.