“Him go to meet red-haired man,” remarked Charlie, who was watching the vanishing canoe. “I seen him, that man, ’way down lake.”
“You did?” exclaimed Mr. Jackson. “Scouting for us, I suppose. You’re a valuable youngster to have around. Want to work for me? I’ll give you a job.”
Charlie shook his head stolidly.
“No work in summer-time. Work hard in winter—hunt—trap. Rest in summer—hunt little, fight mebbe.”
“Well, we won’t have any more fighting, I hope,” said the lumberman. “But there’s a heap of work. You men, Harrison’s gang, I’ll take you all on, if you want to stay with me, and pay you the same as my own men. What do you say?”
All the men agreed, with evident pleasure.
“Always did think there was somethin’ crooked about that feller,” remarked that one of them who owned the team. “Never could git no money out of him.”
“And now,” said the Montreal lumber dealer, “I certainly wish, Jackson, that you’d tell me what all this is about. I spend considerable money to come up here, and find myself landed in a fight.”
“Think yourself lucky that you didn’t get landed for something worse,” Mr. Jackson laughed. “You haven’t paid any money out yet? No? Good. I’ll tell you how the thing stands.”
And he proceeded to detail the circumstances, which were corroborated by the Ormond postmaster.