Jolly Roger sat smoking his pipe at intervals in the gloom, though there was little pleasure in smoking a pipe in darkness.
The storm did not oppress him, but filled him with an odd sense of security and comfort.

The wind shrieked and lashed itself about his snow-dune, but it could not get at him.

Its mightiest efforts to destroy only beat more snow upon him, and made him safer and warmer.

In a way, there was something of humor as well as tragedy in its wild frenzy, and Peter heard him laugh softly in the darkness.

More and more frequently he had heard that laugh since those warm days of autumn when they had last met the red-headed man, Terence Cassidy, of the Royal Northwest Mounted Police, and his master had shot him on the white shore of Wollaston.
"You see," said McKay, caressing Peter's hairy neck in the gloom.
"Everything is turning out right for us, and I'm beginning to believe more and more what Yellow Bird told us, and that in the end we're going to be happy--somewhere--with Nada.