THE SEVEN LUMBER-JACKS
"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.
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