"Yes, I can hold on to you with one arm. There! Now they're in!"
"Does the lid fit tight?"
"Yes, very tight indeed. But, oh, Alf, the wolves are nearer!"
"Never mind," rejoined the elder boy. "Now I'm going to pull Sharik up for a minute, and you must quickly tie this end of the string to the handle of the kettle, and mind and tie the right kind of knots."
There was a pause. The pony had stopped, panting heavily, his head drooping, his mouth all foam. The line of wolves—closer now—had stopped too, ears pricked inquiringly, tails out.
"Have you done it? Then give me the ball of string, and you hold on to my waist, for I'm going to start again. Don't bother about the kettle, let it drop behind, and I'll pay out a long line, and let the thing come bumping and clattering after us. It may puzzle the wolves, and make them afraid of catching us up, and so we shall perhaps gain time for Sharik to get his wind again."
Alf's good idea was at once acted upon, and as the bright tin kettle descended to the road, and came pounding and bumping along, clattering and ringing and jingling with the tumbling and shifting of its metal contents, the wolves began, with common consent, to lag behind.
For here, undoubtedly, they seemed to think, was a trap or snare of some weird and deadly nature, and they dared not pass it, but loped along some way behind, looking dejected and well-nigh despairing.
Seeing this, Alf suffered Sharik to go his own pace, and presently the good little steed got his wind again, and galloped on bravely.
"Hark!" exclaimed Bert, clutching his brother in his excitement. "What's that!"