They were
strange things in that wild and hunted creature's face--gray eyes,
large, beautiful. With the face taken away they would have been
wonderful.
For a full minute not a sound passed between the two men. Philip's
hand had slipped to the butt of his revolver, but he had no
intention of using it. Then he found his voice. It seemed the most
natural thing in the world that he should say what he did.
"Hello, Bram!"
"Boo-joo, m'sieu!"
Only Bram's thick lips moved. His voice was low and guttural.
Almost instantly his head disappeared from the opening.
Philip dug himself quickly from his sleeping-bag. Through the
aperture there came to him now another sound, the yearning whine
of beasts. He could not hear Bram. In spite of the confidence
which his first look at Bram had given him he felt a sudden shiver
run up his spine as he faced the end of the tunnel on his hands
and knees, his revolver in his hand. What a rat in a trap he would
be if Bram loosed his wolves! What sport for the pack--and perhaps
for the master himself! He could kill two or three--and that would
be all.
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