She had never heard quite this tone in Bill's voice before. It was hard, uncompromising, some way menacing. "I say," he repeated slowly, "are you Pete and Joe, or aren't you?"
"Pete—Joe?" Joe answered at last, in a bewildered tune. Harold himself could not have given a better simulation of amazement. "Don't know 'em. I'm Wolfpaw Black—he's Jimmy—Jimmy DuBois."
The names were convincing,—typical breed names, the latter with a touch of French. But Harold's admiration for the resourcefulness of his confederate really was not justified. Joe hadn't originated the two names. He had spoken the first two that had come to his mind,—the names of a pair of worthy breeds from a distant encampment.
Except for a little lingering uneasiness, Bill was satisfied. It would be easy to mistake the voice. He had heard it only a few times in his life. Virginia went on with her supper preparations, and at last the three of them drew chairs around their crude little table. The two breeds took their lunch from their packs and munched it, sitting beside the stove.
The night had fallen now, impenetrably dark, and the Northern Lights were flashing like aerial searchlights in the sky. The five of them were singularly quiet, deep in their own thoughts. Bill heard his watch ticking loudly in his pocket.
All at once Joe grunted in the stillness, and all except Bill whirled to look at him. He went to his pack and fumbled among the blankets. Then, a greedy light in his eyes, he put two dark bottles upon the table.
Bill, unseeing, did not understand. His finer senses, however, told him that the air was suddenly electric, charged with suspense. Virginia was frankly alarmed.
In her past life she had had intimate acquaintance with strong drink. While it was true that she had never partaken of it beyond an occasional cocktail before dinner, it was common enough in the circle in which she had moved. She was used to seeing the men of her acquaintance drink whisky-and-sodas, and many of her intimate girl friends drank enough to harden their eyes and injure their complexions. She herself had always regarded it tolerantly, thinking that much of the hue and cry that had been raised about it was sheer sentimentality and absurdity. She didn't know that evil genii dwelt in the dark waters that could change men into brutes: such mild exhilaration as she had received from an unusually potent cocktail had only seemed harmless and amusing.
But she was not tolerant now. She was suddenly deeply afraid. She looked at Bill, forgetting for the moment that in his blindness he could not see what was occurring and that in his helplessness she could not depend upon him in a crisis. She turned to Harold, hoping that he would refuse this offering at a word. And her fear increased when she saw the craving on his face.
Harold had gone a long time without strong drink. The sight of the dark bottles woke his old passion for it in a flash. His blood leaped, a strange and dreadful eagerness transcended him. Virginia was horrified at the sudden, insane light in his eyes, the drawing of his features.