Several times Tom whispered: "I believe you're asleep." "I'm not!" I protested.
"Well, you jump as if you were," he retorted.
By and by Tom himself started spasmodically, and I accused him of having slept; but he denied it in a most positive whisper.

Suddenly, in an interval between two naps, I heard a sound different from the soughing of the wind, a sound like claws or toenails scratching on the snow crust.

It came from the direction of the knoll, or beyond it.
"Tom, Tom, he's coming!" I whispered.
Tom, starting up from a nap, gripped the gunstock.

"Yes, siree," he said.

"He is." He cocked the gun, and the barrel squeaked faintly on the rail.