Mike was prospecting the floor with another light.
“Here's two burnt matches,” he continued, picking them up. “An' they were loighted last night, too. See that, they're long, an' that means that they wasn't used for lightin' a pipe or a cigar—jes' fer touchin' off a candle, that's all. I know they was loighted last night,” he said, as though to convince himself, “fer they're fresh, an' ain't been tramped on. If they'd been here fer two or three days, roight in front of the door, they'd have the black knocked off 'em wid ye boys' feet. This wan didn't light at all hardly, an' there's a little wool fuzz stickin' to it. Gee! that manes some wan sthruck it on his wool pants. Git the lantern, Ned, p'raps we'll fin' out somethin' more. The light from that high up winder ain't good enough fer trackin' a bear.”
When the lantern was brought, Mike continued his detective operations, nose and eyes close to the floor, like a black tracker.
“What's that, Ned?” he asked, pointing his finger at a dark brown spot on the boards.
Carter crouched and scrutinized Mike's find. “Tobacco spit,” and he gave a little laugh.
“Roight you are; that's what it is. Now who chaws tobaccie in this stable?” he demanded of Carter, with the air of a cross-examining counsel.
“I don't.”
“Does Finn?”
“No; I don't think so.”
“Didn't Shandy always have a gob of it in his cheek—the dirty pig?”