style="font-size:15px;"> Cracker fawned up. In the shadows, behind, the pack stared attentive. It was a pretense at playfulness – Cracker's advance. Cracker pawed the ice, and wagged his tail, and laughed. This amused Billy. It was transparent cunning. Billy gripped his club and let the fire freely ignite the end of it. He was as keen as the dog – as sly and as alert.
He said:
"Good ol' dog!"
Obviously the man was not suspicious. Cracker's confidence increased. He moved quickly, then, within leaping distance. For a flash he paused, king-hairs rising. When he rushed, the pack failed him. It started, quivered, stopped, and cautiously stood still. Billy was up. The lift of Cracker's crest and the dog's taut pause had amply warned him.
A moment later Cracker was in scared, yelping flight from the pain and horror of Billy's blazing club, and the pack was in ravenous chase of him. Billy Topsail listened for the issue of the chase. It came presently – the confusion of a dog fight; and it was soon over. Cracker was either dead or master again. Billy hoped the pack had made an end of him and would be content. He could not be sure of the outcome. Cracker was a difficult beast.
Released from the wolfskin bag and heartened by Billy's laughter, Teddy Brisk demanded:
"Was it Cracker?"
"It was."
Teddy grinned.
"Did you fetch un a fatal wallop?"
"I left the dogs t' finish the job. Hark! They're not feastin', is they? Mm-m? I don't know."
They snuggled up to the little fire. Teddy Brisk was wistful. He talked now – as often before – of the coming of a skiff from Our Harbour. He had a child's intimate knowledge of his own mother – and a child's wise and abounding faith.
"I knows my mother's ways," he declared. "Mark me, Billy, my mother's an anxious woman an' wonderful fond o' me. When my mother heard that sou'west wind blow up, 'Skipper Thomas,' says she t' my grandfather, 'them b'ys is goin' out with the ice; an' you get right straight up out o' bed an' tend t' things.'
"An' my grandfather's a man; an' he says:
"'Go to, woman! They're ashore on Ginger Head long ago!'
"An' my mother says:
"'Ah, well, they mightn't be, you dunder-head!' – for she've a wonderful temper when she's afeared for my safety.
"An' my grandfather says:
"'They is, though.'
"An' my mother says:
"'You'll be off in the bait skiff t'-morrow, sir, with a flea in your ear, t' find out at Our Harbour.'
"An' she'd give that man his tea in a mug (scolding) until he got a Tight Cove crew t'gether an' put out across the bay. Ecod! but they'd fly across the bay in a gale o' wind like that! Eh, Billy?"
"All in a smother – eh, Teddy?"
"Yep – all in a smother. My grandfather's fit an' able for anything in a boat. An' they'd send the news up an' down the coast from Our Harbour – wouldn't they, Billy?"
"'Way up an' down the coast, Teddy."
"Yep – 'way up an' down. They must be skiffs from Walk Harbour an' Skeleton Cove an' Come-Again Bight searchin' this floe for we – eh, Billy?"
"An' Our Harbour too."
"Yep – an' Our Harbour too. Jus' the way they done when ol' Bad-Weather West was cast away – eh, Billy? Don't you 'low so?"
"Jus' that clever way, Teddy."
"I reckon my mother'll tend t' that." Teddy's heart failed him then. "Anyhow, Billy," said he weakly, "you'll take care o' me – won't you – if the worst comes t' the worst?"
The boy was not too young for a vision of the worst coming to the worst.
"None better!" Billy replied.
"I been thinkin' I isn't very much of a man, Billy. I've not much courage left."
"Huh!" Billy scoffed. "When we gets ashore, an' I tells my tale o' these days – "
Teddy started.
"Billy," said he, "you'll not tell what I said?"
"What was that now?"
"Jus' now, Billy – about – "
"I heard no boast. An I was you, Teddy, I wouldn't boast too much. I'd cling t' modesty."
"I takes it back," said Teddy. He sighed. "An' I'll stand by."
It did not appear to Billy Topsail how this guardianship of the boy was to be accomplished. Being prolonged, it was a battle, of course, no man could win. The dogs were beaten off for the time. They would return – not that night, perhaps, or in the broad light of the next day; but in the dark of the night to come they would return, and, failing success then, in the dark of the night after.
That was the way of it.
CHAPTER VIII
In Which Teddy Brisk Escapes From the Wolfskin Bag and Determines to Use His Crutch and Billy Topsail Comes to the Conclusion that "It Looks Bad"
Next day the dogs hung close. They were now almost desperately ravenous. It was agony for them to be so near the satisfaction of their hunger and in inhibitive terror of seizing it. Their mouths dripped. They were in torture – they whimpered and ran restless circles; but they did not dare. They would attack when the quarry was weak or unaware. Occasionally Billy Topsail sallied on them with his club and a loud, intimidating tongue, to disclose his strength and teach them discretion; and the dogs were impressed and restrained by this show. If Billy Topsail could catch and kill a dog he would throw the carcass to the pack and thus stave off attack. Having been fed, the dogs would be in a mild humour. Billy might then entice and kill another – for himself and Teddy Brisk.
Cracker was alive and still masterful. Billy went out in chase of Smoke. It was futile. Billy cut a ridiculous figure in the pursuit. He could neither catch the dog nor overreach him with blandishments; and a cry of alarm from the boy brought him back to his base in haste to drive off Cracker and Tucker and Sling, who were up to the wolf's trick of flanking. The dogs had reverted. They were wolves again – as nearly as harbour dogs may be. Billy perceived that they could no longer be dealt with as the bond dogs of Tight Cove.
In the afternoon Billy slept. He would need to keep watch through the night.
Billy Topsail had husbanded the fragments of the komatik. A fire burned all that night – a mere glow and flicker of light. It was the last of the wood. All that remained was the man's club and the boy's crutch. Now, too, the last of the food went. There was nothing to eat. What Billy had brought, the abundant provision of a picnic, with something for emergencies – the bread and tea and molasses – had been conserved, to be sure, and even attenuated. There was neither a crumb nor a drop of it left.
What confronted Billy Topsail now, however, and alarmed his hope and courage, was neither wind nor frost, nor so much the inevitable pangs of starvation, which were not immediate, as a swift abatement of his strength. A starved man cannot long continue at bay with a club.
