shrewdly what the other held. Yet they went on playing night after
night; the Snipe shrilly blessing or cursing his luck, the Scotsman
phlegmatic as a bolster.

"Play away, man. What ails ye?" he asked.

The Snipe had dropped both hands to his thighs and sat up, stiff and
listening.

"Whist! Outside the door. . . ."

All listened. "I hear nothing," said David, after ten seconds.

"Hush, man--listen! There, again . . ."

They heard now. Cooney slipped down from his hammock, stole to the door
and listened, crouching, with his ear close to the jamb. The sound
resembled breathing--or so he thought for a moment. Then it seemed
rather as if some creature were softly feeling about the door--fumbling
its coating of ice and frozen snow.

Cooney listened. They all listened. Usually, as soon as they stirred
from the scorching circle of the fire, their breath came from them in
clouds. It trickled from them now in thin wisps of vapour. They could
almost hear the soft grey ash dropping on the hearth.

A log spluttered. Then the invalid's voice clattered in--

"It's the bears--the bears! They've come after Bill, and next it'll be
my turn. I warned you--I told you he wasn't deep enough. O Lord, have