“Yes, the road isn’t so good. Maybe you better stay here, overnight. I got lots of room, and I’ll be glad to put you up. Reasonable, too.”
Charlie gasped. Quade’s eyes narrowed. He looked at Karl Becker through the slits, then let out a slow sigh. “That would be kind of you, Mr. Becker. By the way, I’m interested in your foxes. You raise quite a few here, don’t you?”
“Yeah, sure. I pelt three-four t’ousand every season. But the business. It’s lousy; not like it used to was.”
“So I’ve heard. Too many breeders raising silver foxes these days. Over-production. You take the hosiery business now…”
“You in that business?”
“No, but I know a little about it. Just like I do everything else.” Oliver Quade pursed up his lips and looked at Charlie Boston.
Boston was looking at Karl Becker and a little grin played around his mouth. Becker had risen to the bait. He was staring at Oliver Quade with his head cocked to one side.
“Ha, you know about everything, Mr. — ?”
“Quade, Oliver Quade. And this is Charlie Boston.”
“Please to meetcha. But, Mr. Quade, did you said you was a smart man, you know everything?”
“Yes, I know everything. I’m probably the smartest man in the entire state of Wisconsin.”
Becker cleared his throat noisily. “Is that so? You’re smart maybe about foxes too?”
“Oh, sure.” Quade attempted to look modest.
Charlie Boston began to rub his hands together, slowly. His grin was widening. He knew Oliver Quade. He knew how he worked. Quade had been annoyed by that bit about selling them a little gasoline and putting them up for the night reasonably. He was out to get the fox raiser now. And no man had ever matched wits with Oliver Quade, successfully. For Oliver Quade was the Human Encyclopedia.
Becker put both hands behind his rumble seat and walked up and down the living room. Then he stopped before Quade.
“Mr. Quade,” he said. “You have made a statement to me, two statements. You have said you know everything. Furthermore, you have said you know smart things about foxes. You will excuse me, but I do not believe you. I am not a book man. I do not know things about this — well, maybe this Einstein t’eory. But I know foxes. I will bet you, Mr. Quade, dot you cannot answer one question I ask you about foxes. I will bet you five dollars.”
“That, Mr. Becker,” said Quade, “is a bet.”
Karl Becker pulled a roll of bills from his pocket. He peeled off one and held it out before him. “Here is my money.”
Quade plunged his hand into his own pocket, fished around. He knew very well what it contained — a lone dime and two pennies. “Ask your question.”
“Very well. What three major diseases are foxes afflicted with?”
“Mr. Becker, those are really three questions. But it’s bargain day. I’ll give you the three for one. Foxes are greatly susceptible to worms — hook, lung and roundworms. They also get distemper and encephalitis. Encephalitis is sleeping sickness, or paralysis of the brain.”
Karl Becker’s face was comical to see. Bewilderment was intermingled with chagrin and greed. Karl Becker thought no more of losing his five dollars than he did his right arm. He clung to the five dollar bill until Quade, grinning, stepped forward and plucked it out of his hand.
Then he added insult to injury. “Mr. Becker, I’m a sporting man, myself. I’ll give you a chance to get even. I’ll bet this five dollars against a night’s lodging and three gallons of gasoline in the morning that I can correctly answer any question you can ask me on any subject!”
Becker’s eyes glinted. “You fooled me once, Mr. Quade. With that act about the fox. You carried it like a dunderhead when you came in here. All right, you know foxes, but you don’t know everything. I take that second bet. And I ask you a question, a good one. In one minute.”
He turned abruptly and went to a book-case. Charlie Boston yelped. “Hey, he’s lookin’ in an encyclopedia!”
Karl Becker took a large volume from the shelf. “So?” he said. “Mr. Quade is smart. He said so. He didn’t said not’ing about not looking in no book. So I look for a good question. Ah!”
He looked triumphantly at Oliver Quade. “So! What is… epicene?”
“Epicene is a term in Greek and Latin grammar denoting nouns possessing one gender only, used to describe animals of either sex. In English there are no true epicene nouns but the word is used when referring to the characteristics of men who are effeminate and women who are masculine.”
The book almost fell from Becker’s hands. “You!” he gasped. He slammed the book shut, sawed the warm air of the lodge with it.
Someone battered the door on the outside. Karl Becker recovered from his agitation. “What? More visitors? The help don’t knock!”
He strode to the door, opened it.
A snow-covered man almost fell into the hot room. Quade and Boston sprang forward. There was a bandage about the newcomer’s face.
“Airplane!” he gasped. “Crashed! Need help. Women — men hurt!”
Quade whistled.
“Pilot killed!” exclaimed the bandaged man.
“I t’ought I heard something a while ago!” exclaimed Becker. “The plane, it passed over here and then I t’ought I heard the bang. But I wasn’t sure. And the men was busy…”
“You’ve got employees here, Mr. Becker?” asked Oliver Quade tersely.
“Yah, sure, three men. They help mit the foxes. Wait!”
He went to the door, took hold of a cord dangling there and pulled on it twice. “They come. They go help!”
The snow was beginning to melt on the man who had just come in from the outside. Quade stepped up to him. “Better take off your coat. You don’t look so good!”
“I’m all right,” replied the hurt man. “I’m worried about the others, though. There’s six of us left alive. If there’s a sled or something around here—”
“I’m a stranger here myself,” said Quade. “But Mr. Becker…”
“Yah, we got sled. Soon’s Hugo comes. Here he is.”
The door opened and a cupid-faced, stocky German of about thirty came in. He wore high boots, overalls and a gaudy, red mackinaw.
“Hugo!” said Becker. “This man come from airplane what fell down near. You get the sled and Oscar and you go help, ja? Maybe Julius better go along, too.”
“Charlie and I’ll go,” said Quade.
Hugo ran out of the lodge. In a surprisingly short time Quade heard the tinkling of harness outside the door and caught up his thin topcoat. Boston grabbed up his own.
Morgan, the co-pilot of the wrecked airplane, staggered to his feet. Quade pushed him back again. “You won’t be necessary. Just tell us which direction to go.”
“Straight north, I think. I don’t really know. I better come along.”
“Your tracks be enough,” said Hugo.
“Let’s go!” Quade said.
They charged out of the warm lodge. In the yard stood a bob-sled with a box on it. Harnessed to it were two snapping, black geldings. A man in a shabby bearskin coat stood up in the sled.
Quade, Charlie and Hugo piled into the sled. Quade nodded with satisfaction when he saw the blankets in it. And the jug in the corner.
“In fact,” said Charlie Boston, who saw the jug, “I’m a victim of the snow myself.”
“Nix,” said Oliver Quade. “That’s a stimulant for medical purposes.”
“I feel sick!” said Boston. He picked up the jug, pulled the cork and with practiced movement tilted the jug. He swallowed lustily.
“Ah!” he said. “Rum. I’m a well man already.”
“Mr. Becker see you take that drink,” said Hugo, “He charge you for it.”