"He've his eye on me, Billy!"
Billy Topsail rose.
"You see my whip anywhere?"
"She's lyin' for'ard o' the komatik."
"She's not."
"She was."
"She've gone, b'y!"
"Ecod! Billy, Cracker haves her!"
It was not yet dark. Cracker was sitting close. It was an attitude of jovial expectation. He was on his haunches—head on one side and tail flapping the snow; and he had the walrus whip in his mouth. Apparently he was in the mood to pursue a playful exploit. When Billy Topsail approached he retreated—a little; and when Billy Topsail rushed he dodged, with ease and increasing delight. When Billy Topsail whistled him up and patted to him, and called "Hyuh! Hyuh!" and flattered him with "Good ol' dog!" he yielded nothing more than a deepened attention to the mischievous pleasure in hand.
Always he was beyond reach—just beyond reach. It was tantalizing.