It was back in the shelter of the black spruce and balsam, its two windows that faced the railroad warmly illumined by the light inside.

The foxes had ceased their yapping, but the snarling and howling of dogs became more bloodthirsty as they drew nearer, and David could hear an ominous clinking of chains and snapping of teeth.

A few steps more and they were at the door.

Thoreau himself opened it, and stood back.
"_Apres vous, m'sieu_," he said, his white teeth shining at David.

"It would give me bad luck and possibly all my foxes would die, if I went into my house ahead of a stranger." David went in.