“Here they come,” someone shouted as, stamping the snow from their feet, they entered the smoke-filled room.
“Here they come. They bring ’em back alive!” someone else shouted.
“Well,” Lawrence drawled, “we bring them anyway. Got two minks today. That’s two more that won’t carry off folks’ chickens.”
“I hear you boys got a silver fox.” There was a suggestion of antagonism in Jack Mayhorn’s voice as he said this.
“Yes,” Johnny replied. “And we’ve still got him.”
“Do you know, fellows,” Jack gave vent to a chuckle that seemed a little strained, “back in Michigan, where I lived on the shores of Lake Superior, there was a feller who used to go lake-trout fishin’. He trolled with an out-board motor. Always got ’em, too, a whale of a fine catch.
“But you know,” he edged forward in his chair, “there was net fishermen there, too. Fished fer a living. And one day when we was lookin’ over this sportin’ fellow’s catch, the fish he claimed he’d caught trollin’ we found had net marks on ’em.”
“Net marks?” someone said.
“Sure.” There was a shifty look in Jack’s eyes. “He’d been liftin’ nets an’ helping himself to the fish that didn’t belong to him. And I was wonderin’,” he paused, “just wonderin’, Johnny, if that silver fox of yours mebby had a lame foot or—or somethin’.”
The silence that followed was painful. Johnny made no reply. His fingers worked along his palm, that was all.