If a cat prowled abroad, or an uneasy dog
scratched to be let out, there would be a squall, a yelp,--and the cat
would not come back, and the dog would never scratch at the door to be
let in again.
Only when nothing stirred in the village, when the dogs and cats had
been spirited away, and when not even a rat stole from under the houses
to gnaw at a fishbone, would the fishermen know of their big silent
visitors. Then the wolves would gather on a snow-drift just outside the
village and raise a howl, a frightful wail of famine and disappointment,
that made the air shudder. From within the houses the dogs answered with
mad clamor. A door would open to show first a long seal gun, then a
fisherman, then a fool dog that darted between the fisherman's legs and
capered away, ki-yi-ing a challenge to the universe. A silence, tense as
a bowstring; a sudden yelp--_Hui-hui_, as the fisherman whistled to the
dog that was being whisked away over the snow with a grip on his throat
that prevented any answer; then the fisherman would wait and call in
vain, and shiver, and go back to the fire again.
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