Cooney flung a leg wearily over the side of his hammock, jerked himself out, and shuffled across to the sick man’s berth.

“Av coorse I didn’ mane it.  It just took me, ye see, lyin’ up yondher and huggin’ me thoughts in this—­wilderness.  I swear to ye, George:  and ye’ll just wet your throat to show there’s no bad blood, and that ye belave me.”  He took up a pannikin from the floor beside the bunk, pulled a hot iron from the fire, and stirred the frozen drink.  The invalid turned his shoulder pettishly.  “I didn’t mane it,” Cooney repeated.  He set down the pannikin, and shuffled wearily back to his hammock.

The Gaffer blew a long cloud and stared at the fire; at the smoke mounting and the grey ash dropping; at David Faed dealing the cards and licking his thumb between each.  Long Ede shifted from one cramped elbow to another and pushed his Bible nearer the blaze, murmuring, “Take us the foxes, the little foxes, that spoil our vines.”

“Full hand,” the Snipe announced.

“Ay.”  David Faed rolled the quid in his cheek.  The cards were so thumbed and tattered that by the backs of them each player guessed pretty shrewdly what the other held.  Yet they went on playing night after night; the Snipe shrilly blessing or cursing his luck, the Scotsman phlegmatic as a bolster.

“Play away, man.  What ails ye?” he asked.

The Snipe had dropped both hands to his thighs and sat up, stiff and listening.

“Whist!  Outside the door. . . .”

All listened.  “I hear nothing,” said David, after ten seconds.

“Hush, man—­listen!  There, again . . .”

They heard now.  Cooney slipped down from his hammock, stole to the door and listened, crouching, with his ear close to the jamb.  The sound resembled breathing—­or so he thought for a moment.  Then it seemed rather as if some creature were softly feeling about the door—­fumbling its coating of ice and frozen snow.

Cooney listened.  They all listened.  Usually, as soon as they stirred from the scorching circle of the fire, their breath came from them in clouds.  It trickled from them now in thin wisps of vapour.  They could almost hear the soft grey ash dropping on the hearth.

A log spluttered.  Then the invalid’s voice clattered in—­

“It’s the bears—­the bears!  They’ve come after Bill, and next it’ll be my turn.  I warned you—­I told you he wasn’t deep enough.  O Lord, have mercy . . . mercy . . . !” He pattered off into a prayer, his voice and teeth chattering.

“Hush!” commanded the Gaffer gently; and Lashman choked on a sob.

“It ain’t bears,” Cooney reported, still with his ear to the door.  “Leastways . . . we’ve had bears before.  The foxes, maybe . . . let me listen.”

Long Ede murmured:  “Take us the foxes, the little foxes . . .”

“I believe you’re right,” the Gaffer announced cheerfully.  “A bear would sniff louder—­though there’s no telling.  The snow was falling an hour back, and I dessay ’tis pretty thick outside.  If ’tis a bear, we don’t want him fooling on the roof, and I misdoubt the drift by the north corner is pretty tall by this time.  Is he there still?”