He did not desert his post. To be caught in the far end of the mine meant almost certain torture and death.
As he listened, he heard the dog’s whine again and again, and it was always accompanied by the scratching sound. What could that mean? A hound which has found the lair of its prey does not whine. He bays his message, telling out to all the world that he has cornered his prey.
The more the boy thought of it, the more certain he became that this was not one of the Russian hounds. But if not, then what dog was it? Perhaps one of Johnny Thompson’s which had escaped. If it were, he would be a friend.
Of one thing Pant became more and more positive: there were no men with the dog. From this conclusion he came to a decision on a definite course of action. If the dog was alone, whether friend or foe, he would eventually attract attention and that would bring disaster. The logical thing to do would be to pull out the snow-cake door and admit the beast. If he were one of the Russians wolf-hounds—Pant drew a short-bladed knife from his belt; an enemy’s dog would be silenced with that.
With trembling fingers he gripped the white door and drew it quickly away. The next instant a furry monster leaped toward him.
It was a tense moment. In the flash of a second, he could not determine the character of the dog. His knife gleamed in his hand. To delay was dangerous. The beast might, in a twinkle, be at his throat.
He did not strike. With a supple motion he sprang to one side as the dog shot past him. By the time he had turned back toward the entrance, Pant recognized him as a white man’s dog.
“Well, howdy, old sport,” he exclaimed, as the dog leaped upon him, ready to pull him to pieces out of pure joy.
“Down, down, sir!”
The dog dropped at his feet. In another minute the snow-door was in its place again.