One of them ran up his sleeve
as they were eating supper, and he flung it from him with a strange,
quick breath, his eyes blazing.
"_Muche Munito!_" he shuddered.
He swallowed the rest of his meat hurriedly, and after that took his
blankets, and with a few words in Cree to the Missioner left the cabin.
"He says they are little devils--the mice," said Father Roland, looking
after him reflectively. "He will sleep near the dogs. I wonder how far
his intuition goes? He believes that Tavish harbours bad spirits in this
cabin, and that they have taken the form of mice. Pooh! They're cunning
little vermin. Tavish has taught them tricks. Watch this one feed out of
my hand!"
Half a dozen times they had climbed to David's shoulders. One of them
had nestled in a warm furry ball against his neck, as if waiting. They
were certainly companionable--quite chummy, as the Missioner said. No
wonder Tavish harboured them in his loneliness. David fed them and let
them nibble from his fingers, and yet they gave him a distinctly
unpleasant sensation. When the Missioner had finished his last cup of
coffee he crumbled a thick chunk of bannock and placed it on the floor
back of the stove. The mice gathered round it in a silent, hungry,
nibbling horde.
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