"Not much—you are Baptiste Ducrot, plain and simple."
By this time Philip Rice had come up, and so had several of the workmen. All gazed curiously at Owen and Ducrot.
"I not know you!" growled the French-Canadian. "You t'ink you make fool me, hey?"
"You will think I am making a fool of you when you are behind the bars, Baptiste Ducrot."
"Is it possible there is some mistake?" questioned Philip Rice anxiously. "This man may simply resemble somebody else."
"I know him well," answered Owen. "There is a scar on his left hand, where he got hit with an ax one day. Another man wouldn't have just such a scar."
"Who dis feller?" demanded Ducrot insolently. "I not know him 'tall. Why he bodder me?"
"Can you prove that this man is the fellow you take him to be?" went on Philip Rice, to Owen. "Remember, his word here is as good as yours."
Owen thought rapidly. If he said yes, he would not be able to touch Ducrot until he had brought Dale to the scene to identify the man. Dale could not be brought at once, and in the meantime, if Ducrot was not held, he might take time by the fore-lock and run away. On the other hand, if the French-Canadian was allowed to have his own way he might remain in the lumber yard until Owen was in a position to notify the Maine authorities.
"I could prove it if we were in Maine," answered the young lumberman.