It told him that somewhere in this silent world between the two ridges there was companionship, and that all he had to do to find it was to sit back on his haunches, and cry out his loneliness.

More than once something trembled in his deep chest, rose in his throat, and ended there in a whine.

It was the wolf howl, not yet quite born.
Food came more easily than voice.

Toward midday he cornered a big white rabbit under a log, and killed it.

The warm flesh and blood was better than frozen fish, or tallow and bran, and the feast he had gave him confidence.