But there came no
second call. The wind lulled, so that for a space there was
stillness outside.
Jolly Roger laughed a little uneasily.
"Good thing we don't believe in ghosts, Peter, or we would swear
it was a Loup-Garou smelling us through the wall!" He thumbed the
tobacco down in his pine, and nodded. "Then--there is South
America," he said. "They have everything down there--the biggest
rivers in the world, the biggest mountains, and so much room that
even a Loup-Garou couldn't hunt us out. She will love it, Pied-
Bot. But if it happens she likes Africa better, or Australia, or
the South Sea--Now, what the devil was that?"
Peter had jumped as if stung, and for a moment Jolly Roger sat
tense as a carven Indian. Then he rose to his feet, a look of
perplexity and doubt in his eyes.
"What was it, Peter? Can the wind shoot a gun--like THAT?"
Peter was sniffing at the loosely blocked door of their snow-room.
A whimper rose in his throat. He looked up at Jolly Roger, his
eyes glowing fiercely through the mass of Airedale whiskers that
covered his face. He wanted to dig. He wanted to plunge out into
the howling darkness. Slowly McKay beat the ash out of his pipe
and placed the pipe in his pocket.
"We'll take a look," he said, something repressive in his voice.
"But it isn't reasonable, Peter. It is the wind.
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