NOVEMBER JOE
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
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