Bob laughed. "Thanks, Hacky, old man," he said.
The snow sifted down from above, but not enough to cause any great discomfort. Seated on a log, the boys began to grow cheerful again. Their aching limbs had eased considerably, and but for the dismal prospect of spending the night without shelter, neither would have minded the experience.
At length, the rabbit was cooked, or at least sufficiently cooked, for they could wait no longer.
"It's half burnt, scorched and raw in spots, but it tastes good just the same," commented Bob.
"You're right it does," replied Hackett. Then, after a pause, he added, "Somers, I believe it's letting up a little."
"It can't stop too soon for me. Hello—what's that sound?"
A series of doleful barks rose faintly above the roar of the wind.
"Wolves! I'll bet a hat on it!" cried Hackett, in a tone of alarm; "and sounds like a regular pack of 'em."
"I believe you're right."
Straining their ears, the boys again heard the cries, now growing louder, then lost in the moaning of the wind.