He straightened up in time to see a dim form disappearing across the snow into the shelter of the dark.

Then he saw Bill, standing amid the dogs, half triumphant, half crestfallen, in one hand a stout club, in the other the tail and part of the body of a sun-cured salmon.
"It got half of it," he announced; "but I got a whack at it jes' the same.

D'ye hear it squeal ?" "What'd it look like ?" Henry asked.
"Couldn't see.

But it had four legs an' a mouth an' hair an' looked like any dog." "Must be a tame wolf, I reckon." "It's damned tame, whatever it is, comin' in here at feedin' time an' gettin' its whack of fish." That night, when supper was finished and they sat on the oblong box and pulled at their pipes, the circle of gleaming eyes drew in even closer than before.
"I wisht they'd spring up a bunch of moose or something, an' go away an' leave us alone," Bill said.
Henry grunted with an intonation that was not all sympathy, and for a quarter of an hour they sat on in silence, Henry staring at the fire, and Bill at the circle of eyes that burned in the darkness just beyond the firelight.
"I wisht we was pullin' into McGurry right now," he began again.
"Shut up your wishin' and your croakin'," Henry burst out angrily.

"Your stomach's sour.