Just then the wolf appeared with his hat and suitcase. The train was approaching a small town. “Come,” he said, “we get out here.” His friend jumped up to join him. They sprang off as the train stopped, though the conductor said that their tickets would have carried them fifty miles farther. The deaf man caught a look of fear and suspicion from the fox as the two disappeared. Of course they were planning mischief, but fear of this deaf man caused them to run from him as they would have fled a plague. Many years ago I passed a Winter in a lumber camp far up among the snows of Northern Michigan. My bunk-mate was a gigantic, silent man, a stranger and a mystery to all the rest of us. He said little and made no friends. He had a curious habit of glancing hurriedly about him; he started at light sounds and appeared to keep a watchful eye always upon the door. Frequently at night I found him awake, gazing at the lantern which always hung at the door, near the end of the camp. One day the driver of the supply team smuggled a bottle of whiskey into camp and my bunk-mate was able to get two good drinks. We worked together that day in a lonely place, and he became quite talkative. I could not hear him well, but he was evidently trying to tell some incident of his own life. There in the forest, knee deep in snow, he appeared to be acting out a tragedy. At the last he did not seem to realize that I was there. He addressed some imaginary person, holding out his hands as if in appeal. Apparently this was rejected, and his face changed in anger. He caught up his axe and rushed up to a fallen log; he struck it a blow which sent a great chip flying a hundred feet away. Then he looked at me in wonder, seeming to realize that I must have overheard him. He sat on the log, took great handfuls of snow and held them against his head. I found myself helping him with a great chunk of ice which I had brought from the brook. “It was the whiskey,” he suddenly shouted. “It’s poison. It makes me talk and think. Say—did you hear what I said? What was it?” He looked at me with hard, savage eyes. I had not heard his ravings and did not recount his actions. He continued to stare at me silently, axe in hand. Then he decided to believe my denial and he kept at work as before, silent and grim. As we went back to camp that night he asked me once more, with apparent irrelevance: “Did you hear what I said?” I again assured him that I had understood nothing, which was the truth. He seemed satisfied, but during the evening he divided his attention between me and the outside door; he was again puzzled over the chance that I had heard. In the early morning I awoke to find myself alone in the bunk. The man did not appear again.