watched those little whirlwinds in the street that twist and twirl
everything into a circle? This sand's loose enough to yield, that's
all."

He made no reply, and we worked on in silence for a bit. I watched him
surreptitiously all the time, and I had an idea he was watching me. He
seemed, too, to be always listening attentively to something I could not
hear, or perhaps for something that he expected to hear, for he kept
turning about and staring into the bushes, and up into the sky, and out
across the water where it was visible through the openings among the
willows. Sometimes he even put his hand to his ear and held it there for
several minutes. He said nothing to me, however, about it, and I asked
no questions. And meanwhile, as he mended that torn canoe with the skill
and address of a red Indian, I was glad to notice his absorption in the
work, for there was a vague dread in my heart that he would speak of the
changed aspect of the willows. And, if he had noticed _that_, my
imagination could no longer be held a sufficient explanation of it.

At length, after a long pause, he began to talk.

"Queer thing," he added in a hurried sort of voice, as though he wanted
to say something and get it over. "Queer thing, I mean, about that otter
last night."

I had expected something so totally different that he caught me with
surprise, and I looked up sharply.

"Shows how lonely this place is. Otters are awfully shy things--"

"I don't mean that, of course," he interrupted. "I mean--do you