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PROLOGUE.
~ One of the most interesting |
characters in fiction, November
Joe, well deserves to take his
place in the hall of fame along-
side his more famous prototype,
Sherlock Holmes. In the woods
* Sherlock Holmes no doubt would
have been of little value in ferret-
ing out ¢riminals, because wood-
craft was not in his line. In the
city, too, ‘November Joe would
not have compared in merit of
achievement with Holmes, but in
the woods every leaf and twig,
‘ stone and bit» of moss where it
has been in contact with human
beings or animals tells 'its story
to the keen eyes and analytical |
mind of November Joe.-
CHAPTER I.
November Joe.
T happened that in the early a0-
tumn of 1908 I, James Quaritch of
Quebec, went down to Montrea
~~ I was at the time much enga
in an important business transaction,
‘which after long and complicated nego-
‘tiations appeared to be nearing a suc-
cessful issue. A few days after my ar-
rival I dined with Sir Andrew McLer-
rick, the celebrated nerve specialist
and lecturer at McGill university, who
had been for many years my friend.
On similar occasions I had usually
remained for half an hour after the
other guests had departed, so that
when he turned from saying his last
goodby Sir Andrew found me choosing
a fresh ciga
Tg an. « I to ming. James, that I
invited you to help yourself to another
smoke,” he said.
I langhed. E
“Don’t mention it, Andrew; I am ac-
customed to your manners. All the
‘same’—
He watched me light up. “Make the
most of it, for it will be some time be-
fore you enjoy another.”
“I have feit your searching eye upon
me more thanonce tonight. What is it?”
“My dear “James, the new mining
amalgamation the papers are so full of,
and of which I understand that you are
the leading spirit, will no doubt be a
great success, yet is-it really worth the
sacrifice of your excellent health?”
“But I feel qiite as usual.”
“Sleep as much as usual?”
“Perhaps not,” I admitted unwill-
ingly. ©
“Appetite as good as usual?”
“Oh, I don’t know.”
“Tush, man, James! Stand up.”
Thereupon he began an examination
Which merged into a lecture, and the
lecture in due course ended in my de-
cision to take a vacation immediately—
a long vacation, to be spent beyond
reach of letier or telegram in the
woods.
“That’s right! That's right!” comni-
mented Sir Andrew. “What do the
horns of that fellow with the big bell,
‘Which you have hanging in your office,
measure?”
“Fifty-nine inches.”
“Then go and shoot one with a
spread of sixty.”
“I believe you are right,” said I, “but
the worst of'it is that my guide, Noel
Tribonet, is laid up with rheumatism
and will certainly not be fit to go with
me just now. Indeed, I doubt if he
will ever be much good in the woods
again.”
“But what if I can’ recommend you
a new man?”
,. “Thanks, but I have had the trouble
of training Noel already.”
“I can guarantee that you will not
find it necessary to train November
Joe”
“November Joe?”
“Yes, do you know him?’
“Curiously enough, ¥ do. He was
with me as dishwasher when I was
up with Tom Todd some years ago
in Maine. He was a boy then. Once
when we were on the march and were
overtaken by a very bad snowstorm,
Todd and the boy bad a difference of
opinion as to the direction we should
take.”
“And Joe was right?”
“He was.” said I. “Todd didn’t like
it at all.”
“Tom Todd he \d quite a reputation,
hadn’t he? I lly he would not
by a boy. Well,
ears ago, and Joe's
sl &
nan in the woods, you
| farmhouse, wh
| bell rang, I
Copyright » 1913, by
¥ 4 dich H ke 3 2
~0
“None better. The most capable on
this continent, I verily believe. If Joe
is free and can go with you, you wiii
get your n.oose with the sixty inch
borns. I mnderstand that he has en-
tered Into some sort of contract with
the provincial police.”
“With the police?” I repeated.
“Yes. He is to help them in such
eases as may lie within the scope of
his special experience. He is, indeed,
the very last person I should like to
have upon my trail had I committed
a murder. He is a most skilled and
minute observer, and you must not for-
get that the speciality of a Sherlock
Holmes is the everyday routine of a
woodsman. Observation and dedue-
tion are part and parcel of his daily
existence. He literally reads as he
runs. The floor of the forest is his
page. And when a crime is committed
in the woods these facts are very for-
tunate. There nature is the criminal’s
the discovery of his ili doing;
| be covers his deeds with her leaves
and her snow; his track she ‘washes
away with her rain, and more than
all she provides him with a vast area
of refuge, over which she sends the
appointed hours of darkness, during
which he can travel fast and far.”
“All things considered, it is surpris-
ing that so many woods crimes are
brought home to their perpetrators.”
“There you are forgetting one very
important point. [ have been present
at many trials and the most dangerous
‘witnesses that I have ever seen have
been men of the November Joe tvpe—
that is, practically illiterate woodsmen.
Their evidence has a quality of terrible
simplicity. They give minute but un-
‘answerable’ details. All their experi
‘ences are first ‘hand. They bring for
ward naked facts with sledge hammer
results. Where a town bred man
would see nothing but a series of blur-
red footsteps in the morning dew, an
ordinary dweller in the woods could
learn something from them, but No-
vember Joe can often reconstruct the
man who made them, sometimes in a
- manner and with an exactitude that
has struck me as little short of mar- |
velous.”
“I see he has interested you,” said
I, half smiling. !
“I confess he has. Looked at from
a scientific standpoint I consider him
the perfect product of his environ-
ment. There are few things I would
enjoy more than to watch November
using his experience and his super-
normal senses in, the unraveling of
some crime of the weods.”
I threw the stump of my cigar inte
the fire.
‘ “You have persuaded me,” I said. “I |.
will try to make a start by the end of
the week. Y7here is Joe to be found?”
“As to that, I believe you might get
into touch with him at Harding's farm,
Silent Water, Beauce.”
“I'll write to him.”
“Not much use. He only calls for
letters when he feels inclined.”
“Then I'll go to Harding's and ar
range the trip by word of mouth.”
“That would certainly be the best
plan, and, anyhow, the sooner you get
into the woods the better. Besides,
you will be more likely to secure Joe
by doing that, as he is inclined to be
shy of strangers.”
I rose and shook hands with my
host.
“Remember me to Joe,” said he. “I
Hke' that young man. Goodby and
good luck.”
® % * * ® W ®
Along the borders of Beauce and
Maine, between the United States and
Canada, lies a land of spruce forest
and of hardwood ridges. Here little
farms stand on the edge of the big
timber, and far beyond them, in the
| depths of the woodlands, lie lumber
camps and the wide flung paths of
trappers and peit hunters.
I left the cars at Silent Water and
rode off at once to Harding's, the house
of the Beauee farmer where I meant
to put up for the night. Mrs. Hard-
ing recelved me genially and placed
an excellent supper before me. While
I was eating it a squall blew up with
the fall of darkness, and I was glad
enough to find myself in safe shelter.
Outside the wind was swishing
among the pines which inclosed the
inside the telephone
onnected us with
miles distant, rang
congruously high
St. George, fort;
suddenly and
up the receiver,
message to November Joe,” she ex-
| when he lived on the Montmorency.”
| vember doesn’t care about strangers.
| teen miles, turn west at the deserted
‘Joe lives about two acres up the far
“bank.” She lifted the receiver. “Shall
the forest noises. | =
~ “My husband won't be home tonight;
he’s gone into St. George. No, I have
no one to send. But how can 1? There
is no one here but me and the chil-
dren. Well, there's Mr. Quaritch, a
sport, staying the night. ‘No, I couldn't
ask him.”
“Why not?” I inquired.
Mrs. Harding shook her head as she
stood still holding the receiver. She
was a matron of distinct comeliness,
and she cooked amazingly well.
“You can ask me anything,” I urged.
“They want some one to carry a
plained. “It's the provincial police on
the phone.”
“1H go. ”
“Joe made me promise not to send
any sports after him,” she said doubt-
fully. “They all want him now he’s
famous.”
“But November Joe is rather a friend
of mine. I hunted with him years ago
“Is that so?” Her face relaxed a
little.” “Well, ‘perhaps”— she ‘conceded
“Ot course Pll carry the message.”
“It's quite a way to his place. No-
He's a solitary man. You must follow
the tote road you were on today fif-
lumber camp, cross Charley's brook.
I say you'll go?”
“By all means.”
A few seconds later I was at the
phone taking my instructions. It ap-
peared that the speaker was the chief
of police in Quebec, who was of course
well known to me. I will let you have
his own words.
“Very good of you, I'm sure, Mr.
Quaritch.’ Yes, we want November
Joe to be told that a man named
Henry Lyon has been shot in his camp
down at Big Tree portage, on Depot
river, The news came in just now,
telephoned through by a lumberjack
who found the body. Tell Joe, please,
success means $50 to him. Yes, that's
all. Much obliged. Yes, the sooner
he hears about it the better. Good
night.”
I hung up the receiver, turned to
Mrs. Harding and told her the facts.
“So November is connected with po-
lice work now?”
“Didn’t you read in the newspapers
about the ‘Long Island Murder? ”
I remembered the case at once; it
had been a nine days’ wonder of head-
line and comment, and now I won-
dered how it was that I missed the
‘mention of Joe’s name.
“November was the man who put to-
gether that puzzle for them down in
~\
dekene.
“And placed an excellent supper before
me.”
New York,” Mrs. Harding went on.
“Ever since they have been wanting
him te work for them. They offered
him $100 a month to go to New York
and take on detective jobs there.”
“Ah, and what had he to say to
that?”
“Said he wouldn't leave the woods
for a thousand.”
“Well2?
“They offered him the thousand.”
“With what result?’
“He started out in the night for his
shack. Came in here as he passed and
told my husband he would rather be
tied to a tree in the woods for the rest
of his life than live on Fifth avenue. |
The lumberjacks and the guides here.
abouts think a lot of him. Now you'd
best saddle Laura—that’s the big gray
mare youll find in the near stall of the
stable—and go right off, There'll be a
moon when the storm blows itself out.”
By the help of the lantern I saddled
Laura and stumbled away into the
dark and the wind. For the chief part
of the way I had to lead the mare, and
the dawn was gray in the open places
before I reached the deserted lumber
camp, and all the time my mind was
busy with memories of November. Boy
though he had been when I knew him,
his personality had impressed itself
upon me by reason of a certain ade-
guste Jiigtness with which he fulfilled
many and disagreeable,
led old Tom Todd took ¢
: been shot in his camp at Big Tree
| phoned the mews into Quebec. The
{| day. Makes a fellow feel less badlike
“when he comes up with him. Well,
but you’ll be wanting another guide.
you. The fact of the matter is that
: “tor who was out with you last fall, has
if | told me that I have been overdoing it
il ‘| I've three months to put in, and from
again with one or two articles. In
ying upon his young
old Tom was overtaken by one of his
habitual fits of talking big. Once
when Tom spoke by the camp fire of |
some lake to which he desired to guide |
me and of which he stated that the
shores had never been trodden by
white man’s foot Joe had to cover his
mouth with his hand. When we were
alone, Todd having departed to make
sOme necessary repairs to the canoe, I
asked Joe what he meant by laughing
at his elders.
“I suppose a boy's foot ain’t a man’s
anyways,” . remarked Joe innocently,
and more he would not say.
The sun was showing over the tree
tops when I drew rein by the door of
the shack, and at the same moment
came in view of the slim but power-
ful figure of a young man who was
busy rolling scme gear into a pack.
He raised himself and, just as I was
about to speak, drawled out:
“My! Mr. Quaritch, you!
thought it?”
The young woodsman came forward
with a lazy stride and gave me wel-
come with a curious gentleness that
was one of his characteristics, but
which left me in doubt as to its geni-
ality.
1 feel that I shall never be able to
describe November. Suffice it to say
that the loose knit boy I remembered
had developed into one of the finest’
specimens of manhood that ever grew
up among the balsam trees; near six
feet tall, lithe and powerful, with a
neck like a column and a straight fea.
tured face, the sheer good looks of this
son of the woods were disturbing. He
was clearly also not only the product
but the master of his environment:
“Well, well, Mr. Quaritch, many’s
the time I've been thinking of the days
we had with old Tom way up on the
Roustik.”
“They were good days, Joe, weren't
they?’
“Sure, sure, they were!”
“l hope we shall have some more
together.”
“If it’s hunting you want, I'm glad
you're here, Mr. Quaritch. There's a
fine buck using around by Widdeney
pond. Maybe we will get a look at
him come sunset, for he 'most always
moves out of the thick bush about
dark.” Then humor lit a spark in
bis splendid gray eyes as he looked
up at me. “But we'll have a cup 0’
tea first.”
November Joe's (by the way, I ought
to mention that his birth in the month
of November had given him his name),
as I say, November Joe's weakness
for tea had In the old days been a
target upon which I had often exer-
cised my facuity for irony and banter.
The weakness was evidently still alive,
“I had hoped to have a hunt with
you, November,” said I. “Indeed, that
is what I came for, and there's nothing
I'd like better than to try for your red
deer buck tonight, but while 1 was at
Harding's there was a ringup on the
phone, ard the provincial police sent
through a message for you. It appears
that a man named Henry Lyon has
Who'd a’
portage. A lumberman found him and
chief of police wants you to take on
the case. He told me to say that sue-
cess would mean $50.”
“That's too bad,” said Joe. “I'd
sooner hunt a deer than a2 man any
Mr. Quaritch, I must be getting off.
There’s Charley Paul, down to St.
Amiel.”
“Look here, November, I don’t want
Charley Paul or any other guide but-
Sir Andrew McLerrick, the great doc-
and must come into the woods for rest.
all I hear of yon you won't take three
months finding out who murdered
Lyon.” :
Joe looked grave. “I may take more
than that.” said he, “for maybe’'Tll
never find out at all. But I'm right
pleased, Mr. Quaritch, to hear you can
stay so long. There's plenty of grub
in my shack. and 1 dare say that |
shan't be many days gone.”
“How far is it to Biz Tree portage?”
“Five miles to the river and eight
up it.”
“r'd like to go with you.”
He gave me one of his quick smiles.
“Then I guess vou'll have to wait for
your breakfast till we are in the
canoe. Turn the mare loose. She'll
make Harding's by afternoon.”
Joe entered the shack and came out
five minutes he had put together a
tent, my sleeping things, food, ammu-
nition and all necessaries. The whole
bundle be secured with his packing
strap, lifted it and set out through the
woods.
(To be Continued)
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