out to look along the road to see if they were anywhere in view. Catching
sight of Frank's lonely figure, he had made all haste to meet him, and
reached him just in time to ward off the wolves that in a minute more
would have been upon him.

When the wolves saw Baptiste, who swung a gleaming axe about his head, as
he shouted, "_Chiens donc!_ I'll split your heads eef I get at you!" they
stopped short, and even retreated a little, drawing themselves together
in a sort of group in the middle of the road, snapping their teeth and
snarling in a half-frightened, half-furious manner. But Baptiste was not
to be daunted. Lifting his axe on high, he shouted at them in his
choicest French, and charged upon the pack as though they had been simply
a flock of marauding sheep. Wolves are arrant cowards, and without
pausing to take into consideration the disparity of numbers, for they
stood twelve to one, they fled ignominiously before the plucky Frenchman,
not halting until they had put fifty yards between themselves and him.
Whereupon Baptiste seized upon the opportunity to pick up the still
senseless Frank, throw him over his broad shoulder, and hasten back to
the shanty before the wolves should regain their self-possession.

They were all asleep in the shanty when the cook returned with his
unconscious burden; but he soon roused the others with his vigorous
shouts, and by the time they were fully awake, Frank was awake too, the
warm air of the room quickly reviving him from his faint. Looking round
about with a bewildered expression, he asked anxiously,--

"Where is Mr. Johnston? Hasn't he come back too?"

Then he recollected himself, and a picture of his good friend lying
prostrate and helpless in the snow, perhaps surrounded by the same wolves