He was filled with a sense of relief when he reached his cabin and found it as he had left it.

He always made a carbon copy of his work.

This copy he now put into a waterproof tin box, and the box he concealed under a log a short distance back in the bush.
"Now go ahead, Quade," he laughed to himself, a curious, almost exultant ring in his voice.

"I haven't had any real excitement for so long I can't remember, and if you start the fun there's going to _be_ fun!" He returned to his birds, perched himself behind a bush at the river's edge, and began skinning them.

He had almost finished when he heard hoarse shouts from up the river.