“If there had been more of them,” Dick commented, “the chances are we would not have been able to take their meat without a fight.”
“Even those four might have tried to scare us off if it was later in the season, when they are half starved,” Mayhew told them. “Just now the wolves are fat after the fall, when hunting is good; that is, fat for their kind. But, when their flanks seem to almost meet, and they are gaunt with hunger, they make a terrible enemy to attack.”
The two lads exchanged glances.
“Yes, we know, for we have been through just such an experience,” said Roger, as he drew back the sleeve of his hunting tunic, to exhibit a long, red scar. “That is something I carry to remind me of the time. I sometimes dream of it, and can see the terrible mob of half-crazy wolves leaping up at my throat, while I did my best to beat them back.”
“If it hadn’t been for the coming of some hunters with their dogs just in the nick of time,” added Dick, “I think both of us would have been pulled down and killed by that pack. It was one of our narrowest escapes.”
“And we have had a good many,” said Roger, smiling as his memory sped back to former scenes.
As all of them were very hungry, their one thought now was to cook some of the happily-secured meat as soon as it could be arranged.
“Here is as good a place as we can find,” suggested Dick, “and, unless I am mistaken, we will be able to get what wood we want without going far for it.”
“The kind that will make next to no smoke, you mean!” Roger remarked, and the other nodded.