stopped and fairly hugged himself.

"Camped, by jiminy! I knowed I'd fetch 'em," was the only remark he
made.

"I wish Big Baptiste could see that Windego laugh," thought Tom
Dunscombe, concealed behind a tree.

After reflecting a few moments, the red-headed man, a wiry little
fellow, went forward till he came to where an old pine had recently
fallen across the track. There he kicked off his snow-shoes, picked
them up, ran along the trunk, jumped into the snow from among the
branches, put on his snow-shoes, and started northwestward. His new
track could not be seen from the survey line.

But Tom had beheld and understood the purpose of the manoeuvre. He
made straight for the head of the fallen tree, got on the stranger's
tracks and cautiously followed them, keeping far enough behind to be
out of hearing or sight.

The red-headed stranger went toward the wood out of which the
mysterious track of the morning had come. When he had reached the
little brush-camp in which he had slept the previous night, he made a
small fire, put a small tin pot on it, boiled some tea, broiled a
venison steak, ate his supper, had several good laughs, took a long
smoke, rolled himself round and round in his blanket, and went to
sleep.

Hours passed before Tom ventured to crawl forward and peer into the
brush camp. The red-headed man was lying on his face, as is the custom
of many woodsmen. His capuchin cap covered his red head.

Tom Dunscombe took off his own long sash. When the red-headed man woke
up he found that some one was on his back, holding his head firmly
down.

Unable to extricate his arms or legs from his blankets, the red-headed
man began to utter fearful threats. Tom said not one word, but
diligently wound his sash round his prisoner's head, shoulders, and
arms.

He then rose, took the red-headed man's own "tump-line," a leather
strap about twelve feet long, which tapered from the middle to both
ends, tied this firmly round the angry live mummy, and left him lying
on his face.

Then, collecting his prisoner's axe, snow-shoes, provisions, and tin
pail, Tom started with them back along the Windego track for camp.

Big Baptiste and his comrades had supped too full of fears to go to
sleep. They had built an enormous fire, because Windegos are reported,
in Indian circles, to share with wild beasts the dread of flames and
brands. Tom stole quietly to within fifty yards of the camp, and
suddenly shouted in unearthly fash