TRICKING THE WOLVES—THE HUT IN THE FOREST.
"I'M so buttoned up in this tight coat that I can't get at anything
in my vest or trouser pockets. Have you a pocket-knife, Bert, or some
copper coins, or metal things of any sort?" asked Alf, keeping the pony
well in hand, and patting the shaggy neck, now bathed in sweat.
"Yes, I've my old knife, and some three and five copeck pieces; will
that do?" questioned Bert.
"If I hold the kettle, can you put the things into it?" inquired Alf.
"Yes, I can hold on to you with one arm. There! Now they're in!"
"Does the lid fit tight?"
"Yes, very tight indeed. But, oh, Alf, the wolves are nearer!"
"Never mind," rejoined the elder boy. "Now I'm going to pull Sharik up
for a minute, and you must quickly tie this end of the string to the
handle of the kettle, and mind and tie the right kind of knots."
There was a pause. The pony had stopped, panting heavily, his head
drooping, his mouth all foam. The line of wolves—closer now—had stopped
too, ears pricked inquiringly, tails out.
"Have you done it? Then give me the ball of string, and you hold on to
my waist, for I'm going to start again. Don't bother about the kettle,
let it drop behind, and I'll pay out a long line, and let the thing
come bumping and clattering after us. It may puzzle the wolves, and
make them afraid of catching us up, and so we shall perhaps gain time
for Sharik to get his wind again."
Alf's good idea was at once acted upon, and as the bright tin kettle
descended to the road, and came pounding and bumping along, clattering
and ringing and jingling with the tumbling and shifting of its metal
contents, the wolves began, with common consent, to lag behind.
For here, undoubtedly, they seemed to think, was a trap or snare of
some weird and deadly nature, and they dared not pass it, but loped
along some way behind, looking dejected and well-nigh despairing.
Seeing this, Alf suffered Sharik to go his own pace, and presently the
good little steed got his wind again, and galloped on bravely.
"Hark!" exclaimed Bert, clutching his brother in his excitement.
"What's that!"
Alf pulled up—no easy matter, for Sharik was going his best. Both boys
shuddered, as a loud, hoarse cry of horror and fear came towards them
on the following wind. It was the cry of some strong man in mortal
peril and deadly terror, and as it rang out again and again on the
frosty air, both the boys turned sick with sympathetic fear and a
dreadful understanding of the truth.
For, strange to say, the long line of pursuing wolves had broken, and
those that had been nearest to the young riders had turned, and were
cantering back as though scenting another and an easier quarry.
As the lads waited, listening spellbound, two shots rang out sharply,
followed by dismal howling and snarling. Then there was a pause and
another shot, more yells, and one last despairing call for help that
was not at hand.
The eyes of the two boys met, and the same thought flashed into the
minds of each.
"Yes," said Alf, in a hushed, awe-struck voice, "it is, I truly
believe, Gavril of the Red-scar. He had come after us on his
snow-shoes, but God did not suffer him to overtake us. Oh, Bert, do you
remember what dad was reading at prayers the other morning? The words
of a bit of a verse have been haunting me ever since we started to-day.
The enemy said, 'I will pursue,' but the enemy didn't overtake the
Israelites, nor our enemy us. Now, Sharik, go on, and get us quickly to
the wood."
The tardy light of the winter morning was just beginning to glimmer
grey-white in the east as the young riders reached the wood which, for
all the last part of their way, had been the goal of their hopes.
The road, such as it was, narrow and ill-defined, led through the heart
of the forest; and—anxious to find some safe place where they could
rest—the boys rode slowly along, eyeing with eager glances every little
clearing for signs of a woodman's hut or peasant's cottage, or even a
shed, so that it had walls and a roof.
For some time, however, nothing was to be seen but the thickly-growing,
snow-clad pines and firs. But at last Bert's quick eyes spied out among
a mass of saplings a small building, made apparently of split pine
logs, the round side turned outwards.
Nothing could well have been poorer in the way of a house, nothing more
uninviting. Yet never was the sight of a king's palace so welcome to
anyone as this hovel to our tired young travellers, for at least it
promised safety and a place where they could lie down and sleep off
some of their great weariness.
The door was fast closed, but there were sounds within, and they could
see a light through the little bottle-glass window. Leading the pony,
the boys stopped at the door and knocked.
"Go not to the door, Sonia, open it not!" cried a man's voice within.
"Who knows but it may be the police?"
"Nay," replied a woman's sweet tones, "the police will not come hither.
Have no fears, my dear. I will see who knocks."
The door opened, and a young woman asked:
"Who are you, my children, and what do you alone in the heart of the
forest at this early hour?" she said gently.
And her face was so kind and true, and her voice so sweet, that Alf at
once resolved to tell her all and enlist her sympathies.
"Wilt thou, in thy goodness of heart," he said, "suffer us children to
enter your cottage, and sleep for an hour or two in some corner? We are
chilled to the bone and spent with weariness, for we have ridden for
hours in the bitter cold, and been chased by wolves, so that it is only
of God's mercy that we have come through at all. But we will tell thee
our whole story if we may but come in."