"Call Umisk," ordered Black King; "he is a wood-cutter."
"Excellent, excellent!" sneezed Carcajou, in a wheezy voice, for the blizzard had set a cold on his lungs. "If Chisel-tooth will cut fire-wood I'll drop it down the chimney, and The Boy may yet be kept alive until François returns. Come with me, Daddy Long-legs," he continued, addressing Mooswa, "and we'll have a look for that cached Fat-eating in this wilderness of white-frosted water."
After a tiresome search they found the bacon that had been hidden by the little hunchback. Mooswa carried it to the Shack, dropping it at the door, against which there was a great drifted snow-bank; then he rubbed his horns gently up and down the boards.
"Is that you, François?" cried a voice that trembled with gladness, from inside the Shack. There was a fumbling at the door, and the next instant it was pulled open.
Mooswa almost cried at sight of the pain-pinched, ghost-like face that confronted him, and The Boy recoiled with a look of dismay--the huge head frightened him. Then catching sight of the bacon, he looked from it to the Bull-Moose questioningly; all at once an idea came to him.
"You are hungry too, Mr. Moose, are you?" for he remembered stories of severe storms having driven deer and other wild animals to the haunts of Man for food. Evidently the smell of bacon had attracted the Moose; but where in the world had it come from? Had it been left by some chance on the roof, and knocked off by the strong blizzard wind? That seemed a likely solution. The Moose was so unafraid, too--it was curious! He reached out and pulled in the bacon--it was like the manna shower.
"Poor old Chap!" he said, stretching out a hand and patting the big fat nose timidly; "you've come to a bad place for food. There's nothing here you can eat."
"POOR OLD CHAP!"
Mooswa stuck out his rough tongue, and caressed the wrist. Rod scratched the Bull's forehead in return, and they were friends.