NOVEMBER JOE
thief had made off that minute, for he'd been trying to force open the trap, and when he heard me he wrenched hard, you bet, but he was bound to take care not to be too rough."
"Good fur, you mean?"
"Good?" Sally's face flushed a soft crimson. "Good? Why I've never seen one to match it. It was a black fox, lying dead there, but still warm, for it had but just been killed. The pelt was fair in its prime, long and silky and glossy. You can guess, November, what that meant for Danny and me next winter, that I've been worrying about a lot. The whooping-cough's weakened him down bad, and I thought of the things I could get for him while I was skinning out the pelt." Sally's voice shook, and her eyes filled with tears. "Oh, Joe, it's hard—hard!"
November sat with his hands upon the table in front of him, and I saw his knuckles whiten as he gripped it.
"Let's hear the end of it!" he said shortly, man-like showing irritation when his heart was full of pity.
"The skin was worth eight hundred dollars
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