In the distance, under the cold white moonlight, the lads could see before them the long dark line of a forest. Alf pointed to it.
"We may get shelter there," he said.
And even as he spoke, the long-drawn howl, the rallying-call of the leader-wolf, rang out on the wind that came up behind them. It was the hunting-cry, and at the sound, Sharik galloped as he had never galloped before.
It is very unusual in these modern days, even in Russia, for wolves in any number to be found as near as this to a town. But the frost had come early, and the winter was very severe, so that the wild animals had approached the dwellings of man in search of food; and now this flying quarry of theirs seemed to them fair game.
Flying quarry, indeed! It appeared to the boys that they were not riding at all, but just hurtling through the air; such was their pony's speed, utterly unknown to them before, utterly unexpected now. But Sharik knew well enough that he was flying for his own life as well as for that of his young masters, and terror winged his small hoofs and carried them along at racing speed.
Now and then Alf or Bert looked back, and marked how the line of the pursuers lengthened, and, in spite of their pony's breakneck pace, the lads could not but realise that the hunters were gaining upon their quarry.
Also, after about twenty minutes of this tearing gallop, Sharik began to show signs of distress.
"He can't keep this up much longer," said Alf, "and we're some way still from the woods. We must pull up and let him get his breath."
"Then the wolves will overtake and pull us down," said Bert.
"Let me think a moment!" muttered Alf. Then, after a silence, he turned his head and said: "Where's the kettle, Bert?"