"Ye call yerself a woodsman, Dan," said he, "an' ye don't know that the hole where a skunk lives _don't_ smell any. Yer _reel_ skunk's quite a gentleman and keeps his home always clean an' tidy. Tug Blackstock ain't a-goin' to git nawthin' in the eye." "Well, I reckon we'd better smoke," said Black Dan amiably, pulling out his pipe and filling it. And the others followed his example. Blackstock thrust his hand into a shallow hole in the bank quite hidden by the foliage. He drew out a pair of moccasins, water-soaked, and hurriedly set them down on the rock. For all their soaking, they reeked of skunk. He picked up one on the point of a stick and examined it minutely. In spite of all the soaking, the sole, to his initiated eye, still bore traces of that viscous, oily liquid which no water will wash off--the strangling exudation of the skunk's defensive gland. It was just what he had expected. The moccasin was neat and slim and of medium size--not more than seven at most. He held it up, that all might see it clearly. "Does this belong to you, Andy Stevens?" he asked. There was a jeer from the group, and Big Andy held up an enormous foot, which might, by courtesy, have been numbered a thirteen. It was a point upon which the Oromocto man was usually sensitive, but to-day he was proud of it. "Ye'll hev to play Cinderella, Tug, an' find out what leetle foot it fits on to," suggested MacDonald. The Deputy fished again in the hole. He drew forth a magenta mitten, dropped it promptly, then held it up on the point of his stick at arm's length. It had been with the moccasins. Big Andy stepped forward to claim it, then checked himself. "It's a mite too strong fer me now," he protested. "I'll hev to git Sis to knit me another pair, I guess." Blackstock dropped the offensive thing beside the moccasins at his feet, and reached once more into the hole. "He ain't takin' no risks this time, boys," said Blackstock. "He's took the swag with him." There was a growl of disappointment. Long Jackson could not refrain from a reproachful glance at Woolly Billy, but refrained from saying the obvious. "What are ye goin' to do about it, Tug?" demanded Black Dan. "Hev ye got any kind of a _reel_ clue, d'ye think, now?" "Wait an' see," was Blackstock's noncommittal reply. He picked up the moccasins and mitten again on the point of his stick, scanned the bank sharply to make sure his quarry had not gone that way, and led the procession once more down along the rocky shore of the stream. "Seek him," he said again to Jim, and the dog, as before, trotted on ahead, sniffing along by the water's edge to intercept the trail of whoever had stepped ashore.