honest--leastways all but half-breeds."

"Nascaupees might a been here," offered Bob, having in mind the
stories he had heard of them, and feeling now that he was almost
amongst them.

"No, Nascaupees 'd have no use for a _stove_. They'd ha' burned th'
tilt. 'Tis Micmac John, an' he be here t' steal fur. 'Tis t' steal
fur's what _he_ be after. But let me ketch un, an' he won't steal much
more fur," insisted Dick, worked up to a very wrathful pitch.

They looked outside for indications of the course the marauder had
taken, and discovered that he had returned to the river, where his
canoe had been launched a little way above the tilt, and had either
crossed to the opposite side or gone higher up stream. In either case
it was useless to attempt to follow him, as, if they caught him at
all, it would be after a chase of several days, and they could not
well afford the time. There was nothing to do, therefore, but make the
best of it. Bob's tent stove was set up in place of the one that had
been stolen. Then everything was stowed away in the tilt.

The next morning came cold and gray, with heavy, low-hanging clouds,
threatening an early storm. The boat was hauled well up on the shore,
and a log protection built over it to prevent the heavy snows that
were soon to come from breaking it down.

Before noon the first flakes of the promised storm fell lazily to the
earth and in half an hour it was coming so thickly that the river
twenty yards away could not be seen, and the wind was rising. The
three cut a supply of dry wood and piled what they could in the tilt,