There was another blow on the door as if something had butted against it, and then a scratching on the rough wood.
“A bear?” whispered Dallas, rising softly. “Be quiet. Bear’s meat is good, but a bear would not be out on a night like this.”
There was another blow, and then a piteous, whining howl.
“A dog, by Jove!” cried Dallas. “Then his master must be in trouble in the snow.”
“Dal, it would be madness to go out in this storm. It means death.”
Dallas did not reply, but lifted the blanket, from which a quantity of fine snow dropped, and took down the great wooden bar which, hanging in two rough mortices, formed its fastening.
As he drew the door inward a little, there
was a rush of snow and wind, and the fire roared as the sparks and ashes were wafted about the place, threatening to fire the two rough bed-places; and with the drifting fine snow a great lump forced its way in through the narrow crack, rushing towards the blaze, uttering a dismal howl.
Dallas thrust the door to and stared at the object before them, one of the great Eskimo dogs, with its thick coat so matted and covered with ice and snow that the hairs seemed finished off with icicles, which rattled as the poor brute moved.