The night was rather dark, for the moon was new. Morot’s canoe was loaded, and Steve, in the log cabin, made his pack. For the most part, he used one hand, and when he began to pull a strap he stopped and his mouth went crooked.
“It hurt, pretty fierce. Looks as if I’m going to carry the blasted policeman’s mark!”
“Let me help,” said Rose, and seized the strap, but Steve pushed the bundle away from her.
“Leave the thing alone,” he said roughly. “In the woods I’ve got to make my pack when nobody’s about.”
His roughness did not jar Rose. To some extent she was cultivated, and she claimed to spring from good French stock, but Dubois was a rude boatman and she had inherited a primitive vein from her mother. Steve was big and handsome and something of a brute. She liked his strength and plu
