The daily monitor leader. [volume] (Mount Clemens, Mich.) 1942-19??, 1942-12-18

on his way up toward the
plateau in the cold and biting
air.
The snow had stopped falling,
but it lay deep, piled in huge
drifts behind the trees. The
last clouds. fleeing before the
moon. were riding swiftly out to
see.
AS he was crossing the little
strip of woodland that sepa-
rated his own field from the long
meadow, he thought he smelled
smoke. 1t puzzled him for mo-
ment until he put it down as a
crazy notion and plunged on.
But coming out from behind the
trees, he saw Osterholms saeter
cottage in the bright starlight,
with smoke pouring from the
chimney, and the window facing
him, cleaning yellow with
light.
His first thought was that the
troops had taken the place over.
They, too, might be watching
for signals, and if SO, the whole
plan was betrayed. He stopped
in CONSERVATION, wondering
what to do. This would mean
that everything was ruined.
They might not even be safe in
their beds if the troops saw an
English signal. The first thing
he asked himself was what
Trygve would have done. Gone
to investigate, of course.
He drew the dictionary, the
field glasses, and the light out
of his pockets, and hid them be-
hind a tree. If he were search
ed, at least they would find no
evidence. Then, keeping cover
as we'll as he was able behind
the drifts, he crept slowly to-
ward the cottage. An owl cried
shrilly somewhere in the forest
behind him.
From a distance of some fifty
yards, he stopped to see if there
was a guard. The dark build
ing, with its low caves half bur-
led in the snow, stood out in
sharp relief against the glisten-
ing white field. The whole air
had that peculiar, gray, translu-
cent quality of winter nights.
Far on the northern horizon be-
hind the hills, he thought he
could see the pale, blue welt of
the northern lights.
Minutes passed. He crept
nearer. When he judged he
was close enough he stood up
and dashed for the wall under
the window. And there he
crouched again with his heart
pounding under his thin ribs,
and waited. Still no sound, but
the wall was warm from the fire
on the other side.
More boldly, he made his way
around to the front of the build
ing, and there, propped against
the snow, stood two pairs Of
skis, one, the long, sturdy skis
of the German army, the other,
the slender black pair he had
given Karen Stensgard the sum-
mer before.
The cold ran over him. At
first he did not understand, and
wiped his mouth with the back
of wet glove. He went closer
and examined the skis. The
same small, pretty shafts he had
bought three winters before in
NamSos.
A rage took hold of him. If
he had been a few years young
er he would have battered down
the door. Should he alarm the
village? Should he now 60 to
Stensgard? He looked up at the
sky. 1t was already well past
midnight. If he went down, the
English would pick this night to
come off shore. Froken Karen
would have to wait until morn
ing. He went back slowly to the
trees where he had cached his
things.
Hour after hour in the bitter
cold and silence, he swept the
dark horizon with his glass. Not
one thing moved. Not even
branch rustled against its
neighbor. Far to the left, and
almost a mile below him, the
saeter was dark. But now and
then he looked in that direction
to rest his eyes, and fancied he
could still see the cottage win
dow far off, cleaning and small
and yellow like a star. He left
the plateau at four o'clock and
went TO bed. But at half past
six he was already up again.
That morning the boats came
back to Trollness from the
south, billowing in around the
point under full canvas, to the