And now the hounds, unleashed, lifted frantic voices. The very sky seemed full of the discordant tumult; wood and shore reverberated with the volume of convulsive and dissonant baying. "Damn it," said Darragh, disgusted, "-- that's what they've been trailing all the while across-woods, -- that devilish dog-otter yonder. ... And I had hoped they were on Quintana's trail----" A mass rush and scurry of crazed dogs nearly swept him off his feet, and both men caught a glimpse of a large bitch-otter taking to the lake from a ledge of rock just beyond. Now the sky vibrated with the deafening outcry of the dogs, some taking to water, others racing madly along the shore. Crack! The echo of the dog-otter's blow on the water came across to them as the beat dived. "Well, I'm in for it now," muttered Darragh, starting along the bank toward Clinch's Dump, to keep an eye on his dogs. Stormont followed more leisurely. * * * * * IV A few minutes before Darragh and Stormont had come out on the father edge of Star Pond, Sard, who had heard from Quintana about the big drain pipe which led from Clinch's pantry into the lake, decided to go in and take a look at it. He had been told all about its uses, -- how Clinch, -- in the event of a raid by State Troopers or Government enforcement agents, -- could empty his contraband hootch into the lake if necessary, -- and even could slide a barrel of ale or a keg of rum, intact, into the great tile tunnel and recover the liquor at his leisure. Also, and grimly, Quintana had admitted that through this drain Eve Strayer and the State Trooper, Stormont, had escaped from Clinch's Dump. So now Sard, full of curiosity, went back into the pantry to look at it for himself. Almost instantly the idea occurred to him to make use of the drain for his own safety and comfort. Why shouldn't he sleep in the pantry, lock the door, and, in case of intrusion, -- other exits being unavailable, -- why shouldn't he feel entirely safe with such an avenue of escape open? For swimming was Sard's single accomplishment. He wasn't afraid of the water; he simply couldn't sink. Swimming was the only sport he ever had indulged in. He adored it. Also, the mere idea of sleeping alone amid that hell of trees terrified Sard. Never had he known such horror as when Quintana abandoned him in the woods. Never again would he gaze upon a tree without malignant hatred. Never again did he desire to lay eyes upon even a bush. The very sight, now, of the dusky forest filled him with loathing. Why should he not risk one night in this deserted house, -- sleep well and warmly, feed well, drink his bellyfull of Clinch's beer, before attempting the dead-line southward, where he was only too sure that patrols were riding and hiding on the lookout for the fancy gentlemen of Jose Quintana's selected company of malefactors?