The cook hotly insisted that he had full right to sleep soundly after feeding a “gang of two-legged wolves,” but the foreman stopped the controversy. “Steady there, all around!” he commanded. “This is a crazy job, but it’s a bad job and a state’s prison job. But sure’s my name’s Kane, I’ll land the scoundrel that done it!” He glanced at his watch. “It’ll be gettin’ light in half an hour. Dayton and ‘Stub’ Cyr, I want ye!” Two of the men--stout fellows both--stepped forward. “You take after Groche. You know the woods. He’ll have left a trail----” From the background somebody spoke. “My snow-shoes are gone. He’s stole ’em!” “Like enough! And that’ll mean Groche won’t stick to the tote road. He’ll strike out ’cross country--Canady way, mebbe.” Lon pushed to the front. “See here!” said he. “Let me in on this, will you? Guess I’ll toddle along with your two.” “Eh?” said Mr. Kane in surprise. Lon’s expression was determined. “Sure’s I’m risin’ two-year old, this is my party, as you might be sayin’. I got a sorter runnin’ account with that critter. And I can tell you this: he wa’n’t aimin’ to singe your hair, Mr. Kane, so much as he was layin’ for me and some other folks. I oughter tackled him last night, but I didn’t; and now I’ve got all the more reason for tacklin’ him good and plenty. And I’m makin’ no brags, but if I lay paws on him, I’ll bring him in, and don’t you forget it! So, if you’ll jest fit me out with snow-shoes and one or two other trinkets, I’ll be a heap obleeged to you.” The foreman inclined his head. “All right--jest as ye say, Gates. ’Nother pair o’ long legs like yourn won’t do no harm to the hunt. We’ll outfit ye.” Lon crossed to Sam. “You see how ’tis,” he said, lowering his voice. “I jest plain got a call for this job. Your father’d say ’twas all right if he was here. But if I take my eye off you for a while, Sam, you’ve got to give me your word you’ll keep out o’ mischief and keep the rest out of it. I guess you can do it--you’ve been toein’ the mark like a major lately.” Sam’s eyes twinkled. “Like Major Bates, for instance?” “Yep--seein’ as how he’s the only real, blown-in-the-bottle major I know. And that reminds me: this trip I’ll be a genooine Shylock Holmes.” “Sherlock Holmes,” Sam corrected. “No,” Lon insisted; “Shylock’s better. Chap, wa’n’t he, that stood out for his pound o’ flesh? Well, that’s me--only I’m goin’ to bring in nigher two hundred. And I’m goin’ to bring it in on the hoof--Peter Groche’s hoof, at that!” So matters were arranged. As soon as the light strengthened sufficiently, Lon and Stub Cyr and Dayton set out. Meanwhile, the cook had contrived breakfast. The bill of fare was that of supper, but Sam observed that the tin plates were not heaped so lavishly. And, observing, he was stricken by doubts. At the first opportunity he drew Mr. Kane aside. “I wish you’d tell me something,” he said. “The fire has left you short of supplies, hasn’t it?”