He folded the paper very slowly and precisely, as if it were of value. His boy companion noticed that as he did so he was paying curious regard to the greasy black finger marks which Eben Sharrow had left upon the clean, white surface.
Sharrow presently took up his lamp and strode away in the direction of one of the camp fires, around which a group of lumber-men stood or sat drying their wet clothes.
Percy Rapson watched the man walking awkwardly up the slope in his spiked boots.
"Sergeant?" he said.
"Well?"
"Why did you show your sketch to that lumber-jack? I'm sure you don't care a brass farthing for his opinion. And why are you so precious careful of the drawing, folding it so neatly and stowing it away in your pocket-book, as if it were a bank-note? It isn't worth preservin'."
Sergeant Silk slipped down from his perch on the log.
"That's so," he said. "It isn't worth preserving. But you may have noticed that I never throw bits of paper away. They make any place look so untidy."
Percy was thoughtfully silent for a while, but at length, when Silk turned to stroll up towards the camp, he said abruptly—