A curious change had come into the man's voice. Even
before he knew what it was, uneasiness caught him, and looking up
quickly, he saw that Defago, though still singing, was peering about him
into the Bush, as though he heard or saw something. His voice grew
fainter--dropped to a hush--then ceased altogether. The same instant,
with a movement amazingly alert, he started to his feet and stood
upright--_sniffing the air_. Like a dog scenting game, he drew the air
into his nostrils in short, sharp breaths, turning quickly as he did so
in all directions, and finally "pointing" down the lake shore,
eastwards. It was a performance unpleasantly suggestive and at the same
time singularly dramatic. Simpson's heart fluttered disagreeably as he
watched it.
"Lord, man! How you made me jump!" he exclaimed, on his feet beside him
the same instant, and peering over his shoulder into the sea of
darkness. "What's up? Are you frightened--?"
Even before the question was out of his mouth he knew it was foolish,
for any man with a pair of eyes in his head could see that the Canadian
had turned white down to his very gills. Not even sunburn and the glare
of the fire could hide that.
The student felt himself trembling a little, weakish in the knees.
"What's up?" he repeated quickly. "D'you smell moose? Or anything queer,
anything--wrong?" He lowered his voice instinctively.
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