Jack's poor, weak eyes fairly danced; it was a beautiful new revolver.

"But, unc--I mean, Larry--why do we take revolvers on a fur-trading
expedition?" he asked.

Matt Larson shot a swift glance at him, answering quietly, "There are
other things up north besides furs."

"Do you mean desperadoes?" questioned Jack.

"Well," hesitated his uncle, "perhaps I do; perhaps I mean other things,
too." And that was all Jack could get him to say on the subject. But the
boy was very proud of his "gun," and a little curious as to just why his
uncle had given it to him, so that night, when they were alone a moment,
he said: "Larry, that shooter is--bully! It's great to have it. I'd
rather have it at my hip than be in a position sometime to wish I had
it."

"I was there once, and not so very long ago, my boy," said Matt Larson,
with a quick frown. Then, half to himself, "But the man in the mackinaw*
will never catch me unarmed again."

[*A mackinaw is a short, rough coat of material much like a grey
horse blanket. It is worn by most lumberjacks, explorers, miners
and woodsmen in the regions north of the great Canadian lakes.]


"The man in the mackinaw, eh?" echoed Jack, lifting his eyebrows
meaningly.