an irritable mood, and he answered sharply.

"What have you got into your foolish head now, Ephraim
Giles? You do nothing but prophesy evil. What varmint do
you talk of, and what has Loup Garou to do with it? Speak,
what do you mean?--if you mean anything at all."

As he uttered this half rebuke, he rose abruptly from
his chair, shook the ashes from his pipe, and drew himself
to his full height, with his back to the fire. There had
been nothing very remarkable in the observation made by
the man to whom he had addressed himself, but he was in
a peculiar state of mind, that gave undue importance to
every word, sounding, as it did, a vague presentiment of
some coming evil, which the very singular manner of the
dog had created, although he would scarcely acknowledge
this to himself.

The man made no reply, but continued whittling, humming,
at the same time, the air of "Yankee Doodle."

"Answer me, Ephraim Giles," peremptorily resumed his
master; "leave off that eternal whittling of yours, if
you can, and explain to me your meaning."

"Etarnal whittling! do you call it, Boss? I guess it's
no such thing. No man knows better nor you, that, if I
can whittle the smallest stick in creation, I can bring
down the stoutest tree as well as ere a fellow in Michigan.
Work is work--play is play. It's only the difference, I