The wind lulled, so that for a space there was stillness outside.
Jolly Roger laughed a little uneasily.
"Good thing we don't believe in ghosts, Peter, or we would swear it was a Loup-Garou smelling us through the wall!" He thumbed the tobacco down in his pine, and nodded.

"Then--there is South America," he said.

"They have everything down there--the biggest rivers in the world, the biggest mountains, and so much room that even a Loup-Garou couldn't hunt us out.
She will love it, Pied-Bot.

But if it happens she likes Africa better, or Australia, or the South Sea--Now, what the devil was that ?" Peter had jumped as if stung, and for a moment Jolly Roger sat tense as a carven Indian.

Then he rose to his feet, a look of perplexity and doubt in his eyes.
"What was it, Peter?
Can the wind shoot a gun--like THAT ?" Peter was sniffing at the loosely blocked door of their snow-room.
A whimper rose in his throat.