and shuffled across to the sick man's berth.

"Av coorse I didn' mane it. It just took me, ye see, lyin' up yondher
and huggin' me thoughts in this--wilderness. I swear to ye, George: and
ye'll just wet your throat to show there's no bad blood, and that ye
belave me." He took up a pannikin from the floor beside the bunk,
pulled a hot iron from the fire, and stirred the frozen drink.
The invalid turned his shoulder pettishly. "I didn't mane it," Cooney
repeated. He set down the pannikin, and shuffled wearily back to his
hammock.

The Gaffer blew a long cloud and stared at the fire; at the smoke
mounting and the grey ash dropping; at David Faed dealing the cards and
licking his thumb between each. Long Ede shifted from one cramped elbow
to another and pushed his Bible nearer the blaze, murmuring, "Take us
the foxes, the little foxes, that spoil our vines."

"Full hand," the Snipe announced.

"Ay." David Faed rolled the quid in his cheek. The cards were so thumbed
and tattered that by the backs of them each player guessed pretty
shrewdly what the other held. Yet they went on playing night after
night; the Snipe shrilly blessing or cursing his luck, the Scotsman
phlegmatic as a bolster.

"Play away, man. What ails ye?" he asked.

The Snipe had dropped both hands to his thighs and sat up, stiff and
listening.

"Whist! Outside the door. . . ."

All listened. "I hear nothing," said David, after ten seconds.

"Hush, man--listen! There, again . . ."

They heard now. Cooney slipped down from his hammock, stole to the door
and listened, crouching, with his ear close to the jamb. The sound
resembled breathing--or so he thought for a moment. Then it seemed
rather as if some creature were softly feeling about the door--fumbling
its coating of ice and frozen snow.

Cooney listened. They all listened. Usually, as soon as they stirred
from the scorching circle of the fire, their breath came from them in
clouds. It trickled from them now in thin wisps of vapour. They could
almost hear the soft grey ash dropping on the hearth.

A log spluttered. Then the invalid's voice clattered in--

"It's the bears--the bears! They've come after Bill, and next it'll be
my turn. I warned you--I told you he wasn't deep enough. O Lord, have
mercy . . . mercy . . . !" He pattered off into a prayer, his voice and
teeth chattering.

"Hush!" commanded the Gaffer gently; and Lashman choked on a sob.

"It ain't bears,"