“Why not?” asked Tom. “It’s better than being out in the storm, isn’t it? Hark to that wind!”
As he spoke a blast howled around the corner of the shack, and blew a cloud of flakes in through a glassless window.
“It’s a little better than outside—but not much,” murmured George. “Look at those windows.”
“We can find something to stuff in them,” said Tom cheerfully. “There may be some old bags about. And we haven’t been upstairs yet. This place may be furnished better than we think. Come on, boys, make up your minds to stay here.”
“Well, we might do worse, that’s a fact,” slowly admitted Jack. “Say, look at that dog, would you!”
His manner, as he said this, was excited, but no less so than that of the dog. The animal brushed past the group of boys, fairly pulling loose the improvised leash from Tom’s hand and stood in the doorway with bristling hair, lips drawn back from his teeth and showing every appearance of anger.
“Something ails him,” spoke George, in a low voice.
“I should say so,” agreed Tom, rubbing his hand where the stout cord had cut into him, even in spite of his heavy mitten.
“It’s that bear!” cried Jack.
“What?” questioned Tom.