Then, for an instant, he held his breath
and sniffed the air like a dog getting the wind. The cabin door
was open. And out through that door came the mingling aroma of
coffee and tobacco! An Eskimo might have tobacco, or even tea. But
coffee--never!
Every drop of blood in his body pounded like tiny beating fists as
he crossed silently and swiftly the short space between the corner
of the cabin and the open door. For perhaps half a dozen seconds
he closed his eyes to give his snow-strained vision an even
chance with the man in the cabin. Then he looked in.
It was a small cabin. It was possibly not more than ten feet
square inside, and at the far end of it was a fireplace from which
rose the chimney through the roof. At first Philip saw nothing
except the dim outlines of things. It was a moment or two before
he made out the figure of a man stooping over the fire. He stepped
over the threshold, making no sound. The occupant of the cabin
straightened himself slowly, lifting with, extreme care a pot of
coffee from the embers.
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