patch of white. Then, amid the crashing of small twigs, the thing was
gone. In childhood, Bruce had been told many stories of ghosts and
goblins by his Irish nurse. He had never overcome his dread of them. But
it was with the utmost difficulty that he suppressed a shout. Then he
laughed softly, for the crackling twigs told him he had seen a creature
of flesh and blood, no ghost. He chuckled again and far in the dark a
hoot-owl seemed to answer him and his company was a source of comfort.

Yet, here was, after all, another problem: What was this white-coated
creature? Of all the wild things of the forest, none was white save the
Arctic wolf. It was doubtful if he roamed so far south, especially in
summer, and besides, this creature was too large and heavy to be a wolf.
Bruce thought of all the animals he knew and gave it up. It might have
been a cow. Cows in this wilderness did not seem more improbable than a
wheat-field, but the creature had been too light of tread for that.
Could it have been an Indian dressed in white, tanned deerskin? He was
inclined to take this for the right solution, and wondered if he should
awaken his companions. He could not tell what danger threatened. Finally
he decided to let them sleep. He would keep watch. The three of them
could do no more.

Once more his mind turned to the problem of the wheat. What was it that
he had just concluded? Oh, yes, Timmie! Why might not Timmie have camped
here and planted this wheat? But twelve years? How had he lived? Whence
had come the seed wheat? There were a hundred questions connected with
such a solution. Ah, well, morning would tell. There would be a cabin
somewhere on the edge of the field and they would eat. Eat? For the first
time Bruce realized that he had not eaten for hours; was very hungry.
Securing some malted-milk tablets, carried for emergency rations, he
dissolved them in his mouth. A wonderfully soothing effect they had.