rat-tap-tap of it came in one of those
lulls of the storm which Jolly Roger had begun to dread.

"I hope it keeps up another two hours," he said, wetting his lips to
take the stiffness out of them. "If it doesn't--"

He was thinking of Breault as he drew off his mittens and fumbled for a
match. It was Breault he feared. The Ferret would find his cabin and
his trail if the storm died out too soon.

He lighted the tin lamp on his table and after that, assured that
wastefulness would cost him nothing now, he set two bear-drip candles
going, one at each end of the cabin. The illumination filled the single
room. There was little for it to reveal--the table he had made, a
chair, a battered little sheet-iron stove, and the humped up blanket in
his bunk, under which he had stored the remainder of his possessions.
Back of the stove was a pile of dry wood, and in another five minutes
the roar of flames in the chimney mingled with a fresh bluster of the
wind outside.

Defying the exhaustion of limbs and body, Jolly Roger kept steadily at
work. He threw off his heavier garments as the freezing atmosphere of
the room became warmer, and prepared for a feast.

"We'll call it Christmas, and have everything we've got, _Pied-Bot_.
We'll cook a quart of prunes instead of six. No use stinting
ourselves--tonight!"

Even Peter was amazed at the prodigality of his master. An hour later
they ate, and McKay drank a quart of hot coffee before he was done.
Half of his fatigue was gone and he sat back for a few minutes to
finish off with the luxury of his pipe. Peter, gorged with caribou
meat, stretched himself out to sleep. But his eyes did not close. His
master puzzled him. For after a little Jolly Roger put on his heavy
coat and parkee and pocketed his pipe. After that he slipped the straps
of his pack over head and shoulders and then, even more to Peter's
bewilderment, emptied a quart bottle of kerosene over the pile of dry
wood behind the hot stove. To this he touched a lighted match. His next
movement drew from Peter a startled yelp. With a single thrust of his
foot he sent the stove crashing into the middle of the floor.

Half an hour later, when Peter and Jolly Roger looked back from the
crest of the ridge, a red pillar of flame lighted up the gloomy chaos
of the unpeopled world they were leaving behind them. The wind was
driving fiercely from the Barren and with it came stinging volleys of
the fine drift-snow. In the teeth of it