wonderful magic of the fur-thieves.

"But first," the Pole added hastily, "between each blow I must put on
fresh medicine. The axe is heavy and sharp, and I want no mistakes."

"All that you have asked shall be yours," Makamuk cried in a rush of
acceptance. "Proceed to make your medicine."

Subienkow concealed his elation. He was playing a desperate game, and
there must be no slips. He spoke arrogantly.

"You have been slow. My medicine is offended. To make the offence clean
you must give me your daughter."

He pointed to the girl, an unwholesome creature, with a cast in one eye
and a bristling wolf-tooth. Makamuk was angry, but the Pole remained
imperturbable, rolling and lighting another cigarette.

"Make haste," he threatened. "If you are not quick, I shall demand yet
more."

In the silence that followed, the dreary northland scene faded before
him, and he saw once more his native land, and France, and, once, as he
glanced at the wolf-toothed girl, he remembered another girl, a singer
and a dancer, whom he had known when first as a youth he came to Paris.

"What do you want with the girl?" Makamuk asked.

"To go down the river with me." Subienkow glanced over her critically.
"She will make a good wife, and it is an honour worthy of my medicine to