"M'sieu--ze revolv'--ze knife--or I loose ze wolve--"

The words were scarcely out of his mouth when Philip's revolver
flew through the opening and dropped in the snow.

"There it is, old man," announced Philip. "And here comes the
knife."

His sheath-knife followed the revolver.

"Shall I throw out my bed?" he asked.

He was making a tremendous effort to appear cheerful. But he could
not forget that last night he had shot at Bram, and that it was
not at all unreasonable to suppose that Bram might knock his
brains out when he stuck his head out of the hole. The fact that
Bram made no answer to his question about the bed did not add to
his assurance. He repeated the question, louder than before, and
still there was no answer. In the face of his perplexity he could
not repress a grim chuckle as he rolled up his blankets. What a
report he would have for the Department--if he lived to make it!
On paper there would be a good deal of comedy about it--this
burrowing oneself up like a hibernating woodchuck, and then being
invited out to breakfast by a man with a club and a pack of brutes
with fangs that had gleamed at him like ivory stilettos. He had
guessed at the club, and a moment later as he thrust his sleeping-
bag out through the opening he saw that it was quite obviously a
correct one. Bram was possessing himself of the revolver and the
knife. In the same hand he held his whip and a club.