November Joe/Chapter 4
CHAPTER IV
THE SEVEN LUMBER-JACKS
The more I saw of Joe in the days which followed, the more I appreciated the man and the more I became convinced of his remarkable gifts. Indeed, truth to tell, I could not restrain the hope that some new situation might arise which would give him an opportunity of displaying them once again. Of course, the ordinary details of our woods life provided him with some scope, and it was always a pleasure to me to be in the company of so consummate a woodsman. It was not long after our return from St. Amiel before Joe succeeded in getting me a fair shot at the large red-deer buck of Widdeney Pond, and it so happened that the killing of this buck brought us news of old Highamson, for we took the head down to him to set up, since Joe assured me that the old man had once worked with success at a taxidermist's.
Joe and I walked over and found him living with his daughter, Janey Lyon, for the police had never been successful in discovering the identity of the avenger of Big Tree Portage. The two seemed very happy together, but I must acknowledge that I feared from what I saw that the beautiful Janey would not continue to bear the name of Lyon much longer. I said as much to November Joe as we were walking back.
"That's nature," said he. "Old man Highamson told me that neither Baxter Gurd nor Miller don't give her no peace. Well, I guess a woman's better married anyway."
"How about a man, Joe?" I asked.
"It may be all right for them as don't get the pull o' the woods too strong, but for him that's heard the loons calling on the lakes, 't is different someway."
"Yet there are some very pretty girls, Joe."
"You've seen more than I have, Mr. Quaritch," said Joe, laughingly; "but you don't get no telegrams from Mrs. Quaritch telling you to come home and sing to baby."
To this too trenchant remark I could think of no immediate reply, and we continued our way for some time in silence. It was drawing on towards evening and had begun to rain when we turned from the woods into the mile-long trail that led to November's shack. His quick glance fell at once upon the ground, and following his eye, I saw the impression of fresh tracks.
"What do they tell you?" I asked, for it was always a matter of interest to me to put November's skill to the little daily tests that came in my way.
"Try yourself," said he.
They were ordinary tracks, and, look as I would, I could not glean much information from them.
"A man in moccasins—probably an Indian—has passed along. Isn't that right?" I asked.
November Joe smiled grimly.
"Not just quite. The man is n't an Indian; he's a white man, and he carries big news, and has not come very far."
"You're sure?" I said, stooping to examine the trail more closely, but without result.
"Certain! The Indian moccasin has no raised heel. These have. He's not come far; he's travelling fast—see, he springs from the ball of the foot; and when a man finishes a journey on the run, you may be sure he thinks he's got a good reason for getting to the end of it. This trail leads nowhere but to my shack, and we'll sure find our man there."
Ten minutes later, when we came in sight of November's home, we were aware of a big man sitting on a log smoking his pipe beside the door. He was middle-aged, with a hard face, and there was more grey in his russet beard than his age warranted. As soon as we appeared he leaped up and came across the open to meet us.
"Blackmask is at it again!" he cried.
I saw a gleam of anticipation, if not of pleasure, cross November's face. He turned to me.
"This is Mr. Close, manager of the River Star Pulp Company's Camp C," he said. "I'd like to make you known to Mr. Quaritch, Mr. Close." This courtesy concluded, he added in his deliberate tones, "What's Blackmask done now?"
"He's at his old tricks! But this year we'll lay him by the heels, or my name's not Joshua Close." The speaker looked up, and, seeing my puzzled expression, addressed himself to me.
"Last year there were five separate robberies committed on the road between Camp C and the settlement," he explained. "Each time it was just a single lumber-jack who got held up, and each time a man in a black mask was the robber. November here was away."
"Up in Wyoming with a Philadelphia lawyer after elk," supplemented the tall young woodsman.
"The police failed to make any arrest, though once they were on the ground within four hours of the hold-up," went on Close. "But all that is ancient history. It is what happened to Dan Michaels last night that brought me here at seven miles an hour. Dan has been working for pretty nigh a three months' stretch, and the day before yesterday he came into the office and told me his mother was dead, and he must have leave for the funeral. Dan's a good man, and I tried to dissuade him, and reminded him that he had buried his mother the last time when we were up on the lakes not a year ago. But it wasn't any use; he'd got the fever on him, and he would n't listen. He had a good big roll of bills due, and I could see he meant to blow them, so I paid him, and told him I'd try to keep a job warm for him till he came back from the funeral. I gave him ten days to get through with his spree. Well, it was along about four o'clock when I paid him off, and I made no doubt he'd sleep the night in the camp and get away at dawn; but that is just what he did n't do. Something I'd said annoyed him, and after telling the cook his opinion of me, and saying he would n't sleep another night in a camp where I was boss, he legged out for the settlement."
"By himself?"
"Yes, alone. Next morning, bright and early, he was back again, and this was the yarn he slung me. . . . He'd made about eight miles when it came on darkish, and he decided to camp just beyond where we did the most of our timber cut last year. The night was fine, and he had only his turkey (bundle) and a blanket with him, so he went to the side of the trail at Perkins's Clearing, and lay down beside a fire which he built against a rock with spruces behind it. He slept at once, and remembers nothing more until he was started awake by a voice shouting at him. He sat up blinking, but the talk he heard soon fetched his eyes open.
"'Hands up, and no fooling!'
"Of course, he put up his hands; he'd no choice, for he could n't see any one. Then another man who was in the bushes behind his back ordered him to haul out his bundle of notes and chuck them to the far side of the fire, or take the consequences. Dan saw a revolver barrel gleam in the bush. He cursed a bit, but the thieves had the drop on him, so he just had to out with his wad of notes and heave them over as he was told. A birch log in the fire flared up at the minute, and as the notes touched the ground he saw a chap in a black mask step out and pick them up, and then jump back into the dark. All the time Dan had one eye on the revolver of the man in the bushes. It kept him covered, so he had no show. Then the voice that spoke first gave him the hint not to move for two hours, or he'd be shot like a dog. He sat out the two hours by his watch without hearing a sound, and then came back to C.
"When the boys got the facts, the whole camp was nigh as mad as he was. They put up fifty dollars' reward for any one giving information that will lead to catching the robbers, and I added another hundred for the Company. So now, Joe, if you can clap your hand on the brutes you'll be doing yourself a good turn and others too."
Close ended his narration, and looked at November, who had listened throughout in his habitual silence.
"Do the boys up at C know you've come to me?" he said.
"No, I thought it wiser they should n't."
November remained silent for a moment.
"You'd best get away back, Mr. Close," he said at length. "I'll go down to Perkins's Clearing, and have a look at the spot where the robbery took place, and then I'll find some excuse to take me to Camp C, when I can make my report to you."
To this Close agreed, and soon we saw him striding away until his strong figure was swallowed up in the forest twilight.
On his departure I tried to talk to November about the robbery, but never have I found him less communicative. He sat with his pipe in his teeth and kept on turning our conversation to other topics until the two of us set out through the woods.
The moon, as it swept across the arc of the sky, guided us upon our way, which, after the first short cut along an immense hardwood ridge, was good travelling enough. So we journeyed until, just as the trees became a gigantic etching in black against the grey dawn-lights, we came suddenly out into the open of the clearing.
"This is the place," said November.
As soon as the light strengthened, he examined the site of Dan Michaels's bivouac. The ashes of a fire and a few boughs made its scanty furnishings, and in neither did November take much interest. Forth and back he moved, apparently following lines of tracks which the drenching rain of the previous day had almost obliterated, until, indeed, after ten minutes, he gave it up.
"Well, well," said he, in his soft-cadenced voice, "he always did have the luck."
"Who?"
"The robber. Look at last year! Got clear every time!"
"The robbers," I corrected.
"There's but one," said he.
"Michaels mentioned two voices; and the man in the mask stepped into sight at the same moment as the fire glinted on the revolver of the other man in the bushes."
Without a word November led me to the farther side of the dead fire and parted the boughs of a spruce, which I had previously seen him examine. At a height of less than five feet from the ground one or two twigs were broken, and the bark had been rubbed near the trunk.
"He was a mighty interesting man, him with the revolver." November threw back his handsome head and laughed. "There was only one chap, and he fixed the revolver here in that fork. It was a good bluff he played on Dan, making him think there was two agin' him! . . . The rain's washed out most of the tracks, so we'll go up to Camp C and try our luck there. But first I'd best shoot a deer, and the boys'll think I only come to carry them some meat, as I often do when I kill anywhere nigh the camp."
As we made our way towards C, November found the tracks of a young buck which had crossed the tote-road since the rain, and while I waited he slipped away like a shadow into the wild raspberry growth, returning twenty minutes later with the buck upon his shoulders. As a hunter and a quiet mover in the woods, November can rarely have been surpassed.
On reaching Camp C, November sold his deer to the cook, and then we went to the office. The men were all away at work but we found the manager, to whom November told his news. I noticed, however, he said nothing of his idea that there had been but one robber.
"That just spells total failure," remarked Close when he had finished.
November assented. "Guess we'll have to wait till another chap is held up," said he.
"You think they'll try their hand at it again?"
"Sure. Who'd stop after such success?"
"I'd be inclined to agree with you, if it wasn't for the fact that the men won't leave singly now. They're scared to. A party of six started this afternoon. They were hoping they'd have the luck to meet the scoundrels, and bucking how they'd let daylight into them if they did. But of course they won't turn up—they'd be shy of such a big party!"
"Maybe," said November. "With your permission, Mr. Close, me and Mr. Quaritch'll sleep here to-night."
"All right. But I can't attend to you. I'm behind with my accounts, and I must even them up if it takes all night."
"And there's one question I'd like to have an answer to. It's just this. How did the robber know that Dan Michaels was worth holding up? Or that he was going off on the spree? He must have been told by some one. Blackmask has got a friend in Camp C all right. That is, unless—"
"Aye, unless?" repeated the manager.
But November would say no more. An idea had come into his mind, but Close could not draw it from him; yet I could see he had entire trust in the taciturn young woodsman.
Next morning November seemed in no hurry to go, and shortly before the midday meal a party of half a dozen men rushed into the camp. They were all shouting at once, and it was impossible for a time to discover what the turmoil was about. The manager came out to hear what they had to say. The cook and the cookee had joined themselves to the group, and they, too, were talking and gesticulating with extraordinary freedom.
Leaning against the wall of the bunkhouse, the silent November surveyed the clamouring knot of men with grim humour.
"I tell you again, we've been held up, robbed, cleaned out, the whole six of us!" yelled a short man with a sandy beard.
"Thot is true," cried a fair-haired Swede.
On this they all began shouting again, waving their arms and explaining. November advanced. "Look, boys, that's an easy, comfortable log over there!"
The Swede answered him with a snarl, but meeting November's eyes thought better of it. Joe was the last person upon whom any one would choose to fix a quarrel.
"I was suggesting, boys," continued November, "that there's the log handy, and if you'd each choose a soft spot and leave one to speak and the others listen till he's through with it, we'd get at the facts. Every minute wasted gives them as robbed you the chance to get off clear."
"November's right," said a huge lumberman called Thompson. "Here's what happened. We six got our time yesterday morning, and after dinner we started off together. It were coming along dark when we camped in the old log hut of Tideson's Bridge. Seein' what had happened to Dan, we agreed to keep a watch till dawn. First watch was Harry's. In an hour and a half he were to wake me. He never did. . . . The sun were up before I woke, and there was all the others sleeping round me. I was wonderful surprised, but I took the kettle and was going down to fill her at the brook. It was then that I noticed my roll of bills was gone from my belt. I came running back. Harry woke, and when I told him, he clutches at his belt and finds his money gone, too. Then Chris, Bill Maver, Wedding Charlie, and last of all Long Lars, they wakes up and danged if the lot of them had n't been robbed same as us."
A unanimous groan verified the statement.
"We was tearing mad," went on the spokesman. "Then out we goes to search for the tracks of the thieves."
A look of despair crossed November's face. I knew he was thinking of the invaluable information the feet of the six victims must have blotted out forever.
"You found them?" inquired November.
"We did. They was plain enough," replied the big lumberman. "One man done it. He come up from the brook, did his business, and went back to the water. He was a big, heavy chap with large feet, and he wore tanned cowhide boots, patched on the right foot. There were seventeen nails in the heel of the right boot, and fifteen in the other. How's that for tracking?"
There was no doubt about the fact that November was surprised. He said nothing for a full minute, then he looked up sharply.
"How many bottles of whiskey had you?" said he.
"Nary one," answered Thompson. "There is n't one nearer than Lavallotte, as you well know. We was n't drunk, we was drugged! We must 'a' been, though how it was done beats me, for we had nothing but bread and bacon and tea, and I made the tea myself."
"Where's the kettle?"
"We left that and the frying-pan back at the hut, for we're going to hunt the country for the thief. You'll come along, Nov?"
"On my own condition—or I'll have nothing to do with it?"
"What's it?"
"That nary a man of you goes back to Tideson's Bridge hut till I give you leave."
"But we want to catch the robber."
"Very well. Go and try if you think you can do it."
An outburst of argument arose, but soon one and another began to say, "We'll leave it to you, Nov."—"Mind you fetch my hundred and ninety dollars back for me, Nov."—"Leave Nov alone."—"Go on, Nov."
November laughed. "I suppose you all slept with your money on you?"
It appeared they all had, and Lars and Chris, who possessed pocketbooks, had found them flung empty in a corner of the hut.
"Well, Mr. Quaritch and me'll be getting along, boys. I'll let you know if I've any luck." Then suddenly November turned to the big spokesman and said: "By the way, Thompson, did you fill that kettle at the brook before you found you'd lost your cash?"
"No, I run right back."
"That's lucky," said November, and we walked away in a roar of shouted questions to the canoe placed at our disposal by Close. By water we could run down to Tideson's Bridge in an hour or two. It was plain November did not desire to talk, for as he plied the canoe-pole he sang, lifting his untrained but pathetic tenor in some of the most mournful songs I have ever heard. I learned later that sentimental pathos in music was highly approved by November. And many woodsmen are like him in that.
We slid on past groves of birch and thickets of alder, and presently I put a question.
"Do you think this is the work of the same man that held up Dan Michaels?"
"Guess so; can't be sure. The ground's fine and soft, and we ought to get the answer to a good many questions down there."
Thanks to the canoe and a short cut known to November, we arrived at our destination in admirable time. Tideson's Brook was a tributary of the river, and the bridge a rough affair of logs thrown over its shallow waters where it cut across the logging road. The hut, which had been the scene of the robbery, stood about a hundred yards from the north bank of the brook, a defined path leading down from it to the water.
First of all skirting the path, we went to the hut where the six had slept. A few articles dropped from the hastily made packs lay about, the frying-pan beside the stove, and the kettle on its side by the door. November moved round examining everything in his deft, light way; lastly, he picked up the kettle and peered inside.
"What's in it? " said I.
"Nothing," returned November.
"Well, Thompson told you he hadn't filled it," I reminded him.
He gave me a queer little smile. "Just so," said he, and strolled for fifty yards or so up the tote-road.
"I've been along looking at the footmarks of them six mossbacks," he volunteered; "now we'll look around here."
The inspection of the tracks was naturally a somewhat lengthy business. November had studied the trail of the six men to some purpose, for though he hardly paused as he ranged the trodden ground, so swift were his eyes that he named each of the men to me as he pointed to their several tracks. As we approached the bank, he indicated a distinct set of footsteps, which we followed to the hut and back again to the water.
"He's the chap that did it," said November. "That's pretty plain. What do you say about him?" he turned to me.
"He is a heavier man than I am, and he walks rather on his heels."
November nodded, and began to follow the trail, which went down into the stream. He stood at the water's edge examining some stones which had been recently displaced, then waded down into it.
"Where was his boat?" I asked.
But November had by now reached a large flat stone some feet out in the water, and this he was looking round and over with great care. Then he beckoned to me. The stone was a large flat one, as I have said, and he showed me some scratches upon its farther surface. The scratches were deep and irregular. I stared at them, but to me they conveyed nothing.
"They don't look like the mark of a boat," I ventured.
"They are n't. But that chap made them all right," he said.
"But how or why?"
November laughed. "I won't answer that yet. But I'll tell you this. The robbery was done between two and three o'clock last night."
"What makes you say that?"
November pointed to a grove of birch on the nearer bank.
"Those trees," he answered; then, on seeing my look of bewilderment, he added, "and he was n't a two hundred pound man an' heavier than you, but a little thin chap, and he had n't a boat."
"Then how did he get away? By wading?"
"Maybe he waded."
Page:November Joe.pdf/90 "If he did, he must have left the stream somewhere," I exclaimed.
"Sure."
"Then you'll be able to find his tracks where he landed."
"No need to."
"Why?"
"Because I'm sure of my man."
I could not repress the useless question. "But!" I cried in surprise, "who is he?"
"You'll see."
"Is it the same who held up Dan Michaels?"
"Yes."
With that I had to be satisfied. It was late at night when we approached Camp C. The hastening river showed dark brown and white as November poled the canoe onwards, and the roaring of the rapids was in our ears. But as we came along the quiet reach below the camp, we heard a great clamour and commotion. We jumped ashore and went silently straight to the office, where the manager lived. A crowd stood round, and two men were holding the door; one was the burly Thompson.
"Hello! You need n't bother no more, Nov," he shouted. "We've got him."
"Who've you got?"
"The blackguard that robbed us."
"Good!" said November. "Who is it?"
"Look at him!" Thompson banged open the office door and showed us the manager, Close, sitting on a chair by the fire, looking a good deal dishevelled.
"Mr. Close?" exclaimed November.
"Yes, the boss—no other!"
"Got evidence?" inquired November, staring at Close.
"Tiptop! No one seen him from dark to dawn. And we got the boots. Found 'em in a biscuit-tin on a shelf in the shanty just behind here where he sleeps."
"You fool! I was at my accounts all night!" cried Close to Thompson.
November took no notice.
"Who found the boots?" said he.
"Cookee, when he was cleaning up. Found a bottle of sleeping-stuff, too—near empty," shouted two or three together.
November whistled. "Good for cookee. Has he owned up?" he nodded at Close. "Was they your boots, Mr. Close?"
"Yes," roared Close.
November looked back at the lumbermen with a meaning eye.
"But he denies the robbery!" said Thompson excitedly.
"Of course I deny it!" cried Close.
"Let's see them boots," put in November.
"The boys took 'em to the bunkhouse," said Thompson. "Say, Nov, think of him paying us with one hand and robbing us with the other, the—"
"Wonderful!" observed November in his dry way. He continued to stare hard at Close, who at last looked up, and I could have sworn I saw November Joe's dark-lashed eyelid droop slightly in his direction.
A change came over the manager. "Get out of here," he cried angrily. "Get out of here, you and your woods detective!" and some uncommonly warm language charged out at the back of the closing door.
In the bunkhouse, where we found a score and a half of lumber-jacks smoking and talking, November was received hilariously, and some witticisms were indulged in at his expense; but they soon died a natural death, and the boots were produced.
The men who had been robbed and their comrades closed round as November examined them.
"Seventeen in one heel and fifteen in the other—cowhide boots," said Chris, "that's what he that robbed us wore, and I'll swear to that."
"I could swear to it, too," agreed November.
"Take them and the sleeping-stuff," pursued Chris; "it's a silver fox skin to a red on a conviction, eh, November?"
"Have you sent for the police?"
"Not yet. We'd waited till you come up. We'll send now."
"The sooner the better," said November. "And whoever goes'll find four chaps from Camp B in the hut by Tideson's Bridge. They 've orders to knock it down and take the roof off and carry the stove into D."
I listened to November making this astonishing statement, and hoped I showed no surprise. What on earth was the game that he was playing?
"Hurry up, boys, and send for the police, or there may be trouble. Who's going?"
"I don't mind if I go," offered Chris. "I'll start right now. The sooner we get Mr.— Close safe in gaol, the better."
We all saw Chris off, and then the men took us back into the bunkhouse, where they talked and argued for an hour. November had relapsed into his usual taciturnity. But when at length he spoke again his words acted like a bombshell.
"Say, boys," he said, and the cadence of his accent was very marked, "it's about time we let the boss out."
Every head jerked round in his direction. "Let him out?" shouted a dozen voices. "Before the police come?"
"Best so," replied November in his gentle manner. "You see, it was n't him held you up, boys."
"Who was it, then?"
November stood up.
"Come, and I'll show you."
Finally four of us boarded the big canoe and set off. They were Thompson, Wedding Charlie, November, and myself. It was a memorable voyage. November stood in the stern, Wedding Charlie in the bows, while Thompson and I sat between with nothing to do. Our craft rushed down through the creaming rapids, the banks flashed by, and in an astonishingly short space of time we had left the canoe and were walking through the woods.
I lost all sense of direction in the darkness until we came out on the banks of the brook near Tideson's Bridge. We crossed, and all four of us crouched in the shadow of a big rock not twenty yards from the hut. We had been forewarned by November to keep very quiet and to watch the hut.
It seemed to me that hours went by while I stared at the shifting moonlight and the creeping shadows. Dimly I foresaw what was about to happen. The pale forelights of dawn were already in the air when I felt November move slightly, and a moment later I heard a stick break, then footfalls on the bridge. A bluish shadow came cautiously down the bank, hesitating at every step, but always approaching the hut, until at last it passed within it. Then a match flared inside; I saw it pass the broken window. There was a pause; the door creaked faintly and the figure stole out again.
I put out my hands towards November—he was gone.
Meantime the figure from the hut was moving up the path to the road, and a second figure was gaining on him.
I recognized November's mighty outlines as he followed with arms outstretched. Then the arms fell, and there was a cry, almost a shriek.
When we ran up, November was holding Chris struggling on the ground.
"Search him, boys," said November. "He's got the stuff on him."
Thompson's big hand dived into the breast of Chris's shirt and when it came out again it held a bundle of notes.
"You smart cuss!" said Chris to November Joe.
A few busy hours followed and it was the next afternoon before I found myself again at November's shanty and asked for the explanations which had been promised me.
"The moment I heard Thompson's story," began November, "it started me thinking a bit. You remember how plain they saw the tracks of the robber, the size, the patch, the exact number of nails. It sort of seemed that a road agent who went around in a pair of boots like that was maybe a fool, or maybe laying a false trail."
"I see," said I.
"As soon as I saw the tracks, I knew I was n't far out as to the false trail. The chap wanted the tracks seen; he walked more 'n once on the soft ground a purpose."
"Then he was n't a heavy man, anyway," I put in. "You thought—"
"How did I know he was a light man? Well, you saw those stones I showed you? He put them in a pack or something, and carried 'em to make them heavy tracks. I guessed from the set-out one of them six had done it."
"But how?"
"See, here's the way of it. I suspicioned some one in C from Dan Michaels's case. And look at those five hold-ups last year. Each one was done within ten miles of C. That showed me that the robber, whoever he was, could n't operate far from camp. Then the drugging settled it. Don't you remember the kettle had nothing in it?"
I would have spoken, but November held up his hand.
"No, I know Thompson had n't filled it, but he had n't cleaned it either. We woods chaps always leave the tea-leaves in the kettle till we want to boil up the next brew. So it looked queer that some one had washed out that kettle. Now, if the robber come from outside he'd never do that, no need to. He'd be gone afore they could suspect the kettle. No, that clean kettle said plain as speaking that it was one of the six.
"Now," went on November, "when I knew that, I knew a good bit, and when I saw the scratches on the rock, I was able to settle up the whole caboodle—Chris put that stuff in the tea, and as soon as it sent them off asleep, he picked the money off them. Then he went down to the brook, taking the kettle, the big boots, and something to hold a pack of stones with him. He waded out to that flat rock and washed out the kettle, then he filled up his pack with stones and put on the boss's big boots. After that, he had no more to do but to walk up to the hut and back again, laying the false trail. After that he waded out to the rock again, so as to leave no tracks, and changed back into his own moccasins, went to the hut, and to sleep."
"But the scratches on the rock? What made them?"
"The nails in the boots. Chris drew up his feet to fasten up the boots, and the nails slipped a bit on the rock."
"But the time, November. You said the robbery was done between two and three in the morning. How did you know that?"
"By the birches. He'd turn to the light to put on his boots, and the moon only rose above them trees about two. Till then that side of the rock was in black shadow."
"And the stones in the pack?"
"The heel-tracks was good and marked. You yourself noticed how the chap walked on his heels?"
"Yes."
"That told me. A man with a weight upon his back always does it. And when I saw the stones that had been raked up out of the riverbed, why, there it was like print and plainer—that the robber was a light man. That got me as far as to know it was one of two men did it. Chris and Bill Mavers is n't sizeable, either of them; they're smallish made. It were one or other, I knew. Then, whichever it was, after he got the money, what did he do with it?"
"Took it with him or hid it," said I, as November seemed to expect a reply.
"When I comes to think it over, I was pretty sure he hid it. Cos if there'd happened to be any argument or quarrel or trouble about it there might 'a' been a search, and if the notes had 'a' been found on one of them, they'd have dropped him, sure. Next point was, where did he hide it? There was the rocks and the riverbank and the hut. But it was all notes, therefore the place'd have to be dry; so I pitches on the hut. That was right, Mr. Quaritch?"
"I could n't have guessed better myself," I said, smiling.
November nodded. "So up we goes to C, and there we finds them mossbacks accusing the boss. Chris put the boots back in the shack and the bottle on the shelf. An old grudge made him do it. But I could n't tell which of the two small chaps it was at that time. So I set the trap about the lumbermen breaking up the hut, and Chris walks into that. He knew if the hut was took down, the notes 'ud be found. You'd think the ground was hot under him until he starts to bring the police—and him the laziest fellow in C! The minute he offered to go, I knew I had him."
"And you still think Chris robbed Dan?"
"I know it. There was a hundred and twenty-seven dollars that can't be accounted for in the bundle we took off him; and a hundred and twenty-seven dollars is just what Mr. Close paid Dan."