The three shook hands on the compact, and separated to look for clues. True to their agreement, they said nothing about Pat. But others had seen the sawmill boy in camp, and by night there was a pretty general conviction that Pat was the thief, so easy is it for mere suspicion to pose as truth. A few of the more hot-headed were for rounding Pat up the next day and forcing him to confess, but wiser council prevailed, and it was agreed that Pat should be left alone until real evidence against him was produced. After evening mess Chip, Walter and Tug met in a quiet corner to report.
“Well?” said Tug.
“Footprints,” said Chip sententiously. “Found ’em leaving the regular trail just north of the office, and pointing toward Mother Merriam’s window. Just about Pat’s size, they were. Prints of the hobnails in the right showed clearly, and three are missing on the ball. Sprinkled some dirt over the tracks so that no one else would find them. What did you find, Tug?”
“Nothin’, except that Pat went from here straight up to the Durant lumber camp,” replied Tug.
“And you, Walt?”
“Nothing but this,” said Walter, drawing the tail feather of a crow from his pocket. “Found it caught in the window screen.”
“Worse and more of it,” growled Tug. “Pat usually has a feather sticking in that old hat of his. Don’t you remember?”
“Yep,” responded Chip.
They sat in silence for a while, considering the evidence.
“Looks bad, doesn’t it?” said Chip gloomily.