intention of using it. Then he found his voice. It seemed the most
natural thing in the world that he should say what he did.

"Hello, Bram!"

"Boo-joo, m'sieu!"

Only Bram's thick lips moved. His voice was low and guttural.
Almost instantly his head disappeared from the opening.

Philip dug himself quickly from his sleeping-bag. Through the
aperture there came to him now another sound, the yearning whine
of beasts. He could not hear Bram. In spite of the confidence
which his first look at Bram had given him he felt a sudden shiver
run up his spine as he faced the end of the tunnel on his hands
and knees, his revolver in his hand. What a rat in a trap he would
be if Bram loosed his wolves! What sport for the pack--and perhaps
for the master himself! He could kill two or three--and that would
be all. They would be in on him like a whirlwind, diving through
his snow walls as easily as a swimmer might cut through water. Had
he twice made a fool of himself? Should he have winged Bram
Johnson, three times a murderer, in place of offering him a
greeting?

He began crawling toward the opening, and again he heard the snarl
and whine of the beasts. The sound seemed some distance away. He
reached the end of the tunnel and peered out through the "door" he
had made in the crust.

From his position he could see nothing--nothing but the endless