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.
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