ere was a small battered chest with riveted steel
ribs. He wondered whether it was unlocked, and what it contained. As he
stood over it he could hear plainly the _thud, thud, thud_, of the thing
outside--the haunch of meat--as though some one were tapping fragments
of the Morse code in a careless and broken sort of way. Then, without
any particular motive, he stepped into the dark corner at the end of the
bunk. An agonized squeak came from under his foot, and he felt
something small and soft flatten out, like a wad of dough. He jumped
back. An exclamation broke from his lips. It was unpleasant, though the
soft thing was nothing more than a mouse.

"Confound it!" he said.

Father Roland was listening to the slow, pendulum-like _thud_, _thud_,
_thud_, against the logs of the cabin. It seemed to come more distinctly
as David crushed out the life of the mouse, as if pounding a protest
upon the wall.

"Tavish has hung his meat low," he said concernedly. "Quite careless of
him, unless it is a very large quarter."

He began slowly to undress.

"We might as well turn in," he suggested. "When Tavish shows up the dogs
will raise bedlam and wake us. Throw out Tavish's blankets and put your
own in his bunk. I prefer the floor. Always did. Nothing like a good,
smooth floor...."

He was interrupted by the opening of the cabin door. The Cree thrust in
his head and shoulders. He came no farther. His eyes were afire with the
smouldering gleam of garnets. He spoke rapidly in his native tongue to
the Missioner, gesturing with one lean, brown hand as he talked. Father
Roland's face became heavy, furrowed, perplexed. He broke in suddenly,
in Cree, and when he ceased speaking Mukoki withdrew slowly. The last
David saw of the Indian was his shifting, garnet-like eyes, disappearing
like beads of blackish flame.

"_Pest!_" cried the Little Missioner, shrugging his shoulders in
disgust. "The dogs are uneasy. Mukoki says they smell death. They sit on
their haunches, he says, staring--staring at nothing, and whining like
puppies. He is going back with them to the other side of the ridge. If
it will ease his soul, let him go."

"I have heard of dogs doing that," said David.

"Of course they will do it," shot back Father Roland unhesitatingly.
"Northern dogs always do it, and especially mine. They are accustomed to
death. Twenty times in a winter, and sometimes more, I care for the
dead. They always go with me, and they can smell death in