In the laugh that followed Harlan took up a roll of blankets and went
into the other room. There was no thought of his crossing the Island
tonight. Kayak Bill's tent had blown down during the afternoon and he
was, as he put it, "forced to seek better anchorage." He and Harlan
were to spread a bed on the floor of the adjoining room.

Kobuk, with appealing whines and tentative pawings at the door, had
finally won an entrance and was curled up in front of the stove. Just
before supper Shane had come in lugging the pigeon's cage, which he
placed carefully on top of a tall packing box. Ellen felt the bird's
presence in a way that was beginning to trouble her. Tonight it seemed
to wear a sullen and dejected look, unlike its usual bold air. All
evening it had sat motionless in the bottom of the cage. The only sign
of life it displayed was in the deep orange pupils of its eyes which,
she was sure, followed her about wherever she went.

She forced herself to look away from the cage. A hush had fallen on
those in the room. The shrieking of rising wind challenged attention.
Ellen listened with a feeling strangely compounded of delight and
terror. Never before had she known such a wind. It swept down on the
roof of the cabin in woolies, threatening to blow it in, and then
seemingly sucking it out again. The log walls quivered. Every joist,
and board creaked and strained. The box on which the lamp stood
vibrated, and the flat yellow flame flickered. The air reverberated to
the thunder of surf that crashed against the hundred reefs on Kon
Klayu. Ellen had a feeling that the little Island trembled in the
splendid abandon of wind and sea--trembled, yet exulted in the freedom
of the elements. She found herself paradoxically fearing, yet hoping
that the next blast of the gale might be heavier.

Harlan had finished spreading the blankets in the other room.
"Skipper," he said, "I've been wondering how the whale-boat is. Before
we turn in I think I'll go down and see that we made the old girl
fast." He took up his oilskins from the floor and slipped into them.

When the door had closed behind him, Kayak Bill looked at Boreland and
nodded.

"I make affirmation," he drawled, "that there's a paystreak in any man
who looks first after his hoss--or his boat."

While the significance of the old man's remark was dawning on Ellen,
there was an odd lull in the storm. Surprisingly a new sound came to
them. It was a soun