NOVEMBER JOE
derful scared the city makes a man o' a drop o' clean rain-water."
"Anything else?"
"Used five matches to light your pipe. Struck 'em on a wore-out box. Heads come off, too. That don't happen when you have a new scraper to your box."
"I say, Joe, I should n't like to have you on my trail if I'd committed a crime."
Joe smiled a singularly pleasant smile. "I guess I'd catch you all right," said he.
It was long after dark when we reached November's shack that evening. As he opened the door he displaced something white which lay just inside it. He stooped.
"It's a letter," he said in surprise as he handed it to me. "What does it say, Mr. Quaritch?"
I read it aloud. It ran:—
I am in trouble, Joe. Somebody is robbing my traps. When you get home, which I pray will be soon, come right over.
S. Rone.
"The skunk!" cried November.
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