THE SEVEN LUMBER-JACKS
towards evening and had begun to rain when we turned from the woods into the mile-long trail that led to November's shack. His quick glance fell at once upon the ground, and following his eye, I saw the impression of fresh tracks.
"What do they tell you?" I asked, for it was always a matter of interest to me to put November's skill to the little daily tests that came in my way.
"Try yourself," said he.
They were ordinary tracks, and, look as I would, I could not glean much information from them.
"A man in moccasins—probably an Indian—has passed along. Isn't that right?" I asked.
November Joe smiled grimly.
"Not just quite. The man is n't an Indian; he's a white man, and he carries big news, and has not come very far."
"You're sure?" I said, stooping to examine the trail more closely, but without result.
"Certain! The Indian moccasin has no raised heel. These have. He's not come far; he's travelling fast—see, he springs from the ball of the foot; and when a man finishes a journey
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