After that the hours seemed interminable. Both Dick and Sandy had forgotten about the novelty of their ride. Intermittently Toma’s whip cracked; the huskies moved on; there was no sound except the slight noise of their progress across the field of white. On either side trotted the wolves, three dark shapes, moving like ghosts, never once quickening or slackening pace. It was with a sigh of relief that Dick finally perceived the first faint glow of morning across the eastern sky.
“We stop pretty soon and have something to eat,” announced Toma, breaking the long silence.
And a few minutes later, when they drew up before a small log cabin, standing at the edge of a narrow sheltering woodland, their companions of the night—the three wolves—were nowhere in sight.
“What I tell you,” their guide reminded them.
“Right, as usual,” grumblingly admitted Sandy. “But tell me, Toma, whose place is this?”
“Another friend—him live here,” answered Toma. “We have breakfast, sleep two, three hours, then go on some more. No like to travel night.”
It took but a few moments to unhitch and feed the huskies. Dick looked on with interest as Toma threw each one of the dogs its ration of frozen fish. Then the three boys strode forward toward the cabin, upon the door of which the young half-breed knocked loudly. But no answer ensued.
“Guess him gone away,” Toma stated, and pushed open the door. “He no care if we stay here for little while. Mebbe out on trap line.”
After a fire was started in the fireplace, Dick and Toma proceeded to get breakfast, while Sandy carried in armloads of wood from the big pile outside. They ate in front of a crackling flame, joking and laughing amongst themselves.
“With the help of the huskies,” exulted Sandy, “we’ll soon leave Pierre Govereau so far behind he’ll never catch up. Won’t he be wild when he hears how we’ve outwitted him?”