“Now for a feed,” said Joe, producing his hunting bag.
“What you got?”
“Ptarmigan. Three of ’em.”
“Good!”
“We’ll save one for Curlie,” said Joe, tossing one of the birds into the corner. “It’ll be better piping hot.”
“I’m worried about Curlie,” said Jennings, cocking his head on one side to listen to the howl of the storm. “This is no night to be out alone. Ought to do something, only we can’t; not a thing. Be lost yourself in no time if you went out to look for him.”
“You fix these birds and I’ll set up the radio-phone,” suggested Joe. “He took his belt set with him. We can at least listen in for him.”
A half hour later, as he sipped a cup of delicious broth, Joe gave an exclamation of disgust:
“What’s the good of all my listening in? He can’t get a message off. He’d have to have a high aerial for that. Could manage it with balloons on a still night, but not in this gale. Wires would tangle in an instant. You can—”
He broke off abruptly, to clasp his receivers to his ears. He was getting something.