THE SEVEN LUMBER-JACKS
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."
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