"We ran her in," he told them, "with the snow blinding us. It was working up for a heavy blow, and as we'd have to beat her out we couldn't take sail off her. We stood on until we heard the sea along the edge of the ice, and then there was nothing to do but jam her on the wind and thrash her clear. There was only a plank or two of the boat, an oar, and Charly's cap, when we came back again!"

"After all, though the boat was smashed, they might have gotten out," Hastings suggested.

"Well," said Dampier simply, "it didn't seem likely. The ice was sharp and ragged, and there was a long wash of sea. A man's not tough enough to stand much of that kind of hammering."

Agatha's face grew whiter, but Dampier went on again.

"Anyway," he said, "they didn't turn up at the inlet as we'd fixed, and that decided the thing. If Wyllard had been alive, he surely would have been there."

"Isn't it just possible that he might have fallen into the hands of the Russians?" asked Hastings.

"I naturally thought of that, but so far as the chart shows there isn't a settlement within leagues of the spot. Besides, supposing the Russians had got him, how could I have helped him? They'd have sent him off in the first place to one of the bigger settlements in the South, and if the authorities couldn't have connected him with any illegal sealing they'd no doubt have managed to send him across to Japan by and by. In that case, he'd have gotten home without any trouble."

Dampier paused, and it was significant that he turned to Agatha with a deprecatory gesture.

"No," he added, "there was nothing I could do."

It was evident that Agatha acquitted him, but she asked a question.

"Captain Dampier," she said, "had you any expectation of finding those three men when you sailed the second time?"

"No," acknowledged the bronzed sailor, with an impressive calmness, "I hadn't any, and I don't think Wyllard had either. Still, he meant to make quite certain. He felt he had to."

The skipper gazed at Agatha, and saw comprehension in her eyes.

"Yes," she observed with an unsteady voice, "and when you have said that, you could say very little more of any man."

She turned her head away from them, and for a few moments there was a heavy silence in the room. It cost the girl a painful effort to sit still, apparently unmoved, but there was strength in her, and she would not betray her distress. She felt that her grief must be endured bravely. It was almost overwhelming, but there was mingled with it a faint consolatory thrill of pride, for it was clear that the man who had loved her had done a splendid thing. He had given all that had been given him—she knew she would never forget that phrase of his—willingly, and it seemed to her that the traits with which he had been endowed were rare and precious ones. She recognized the steadfast, unflinching courage, and the fine sense of honor which had sent him out on that forlorn hope. Unyielding and undismayed he had gone down to death—she felt sure of that—amid the blinding snow.

Mrs. Hastings set food before Dampier. By and by Sproatly and Winifred arrived and they heard the story. After that Dampier, who had promised to stay with them a day or two, left Wyllard's friends for an hour.

"It seems to me you'll naturally want to talk over things," he said; "if you'll excuse me, I'll take a stroll across the prairie."

He went out, and Hastings looked at each member of the little group with hasty scrutiny.

"Harry's friends are numerous, but we're, perhaps, the nearest, and, as Dampier said, we have to consider things," he observed, speaking with deliberation. "To begin with, there's a certain possibility that he has escaped, after all."

He saw the quick movement that Agatha made, and went on more quickly.

"Gregory, of course, has control of the Range until we have proof of Harry's death, though Wyllard made a proviso that if there was no word of the party within eighteen months after he had sailed, or within six months of the time Dampier had landed him, we could assume it, after which the will he handed me would take effect. This, it is evident, leaves Gregory in charge for some months yet, but it seems to me it's our duty to see he doesn't fling away Harry's property. I've reasons for believing that he has been doing it lately."

He looked at Sproatly, who sat silent a moment or two.

"I'm rather awkwardly placed," Sproatly remarked. "You see, there's no doubt that I'm indebted to Gregory."

Winifred turned to him with impatience in her eyes. "Then," she said severely, "you certainly shouldn't have been, and it ought to be quite clear that nobody wishes you to do anything that would hurt him." She looked at Hastings. "In case the will takes effect, who does the property go to?"

Hastings appeared embarrassed. "That," he objected, "is a thing I'm not warranted in telling you now."

A suggestive gleam flashed into Winifred's eyes, but it vanished and her manner became authoritative when she turned back to Sproatly.

"Jim," she said, "you will tell Mr. Hastings all you know."

Sproatly made a gesture of resignation. "After all," he admitted, "I think it's necessary. Gregory, as I've told you already, put a big mortgage on his place, and, in view of the price of wheat and the state of his crop, it's evident that he must have had some difficulty in meeting the interest, unless—and one or two things suggest this—he paid it with Harry's money. Of course, as Harry gave him a share, there's no reason why he shouldn't do this so long as he does not overdraw that share. There's no doubt, however, that he has lost a good deal of money on the wheat market."

"Has he lost any of Harry's?" Mrs. Hastings asked.

Sproatly hesitated. "I'm afraid it's practically certain."

Winifred broke in. "Yes," she asserted, "he has lost a great deal. Hamilton knows almost everything that's going on, and I got it out of him. He's a friend of Wyllard's, and seems vexed with Gregory."

The others did not speak for a moment or two, and then Mrs. Hastings said:

"Most of us don't keep much in the bank, and that expedition must have cost Harry several thousand dollars. How would Gregory get hold of the money before harvest?"

"Edmonds, who holds his mortgage, would let him have it," Sproatly explained.

"But wouldn't he be afraid of Gregory not being able to pay, if the market went against him?"

Sproatly looked thoughtful. "The arrangement Wyllard made with Gregory would, perhaps, give Edmonds a claim upon the Range if Gregory borrowed any money in his name. I almost think that's what the money-lender is scheming for. The man's cunning enough for anything. I don't like him."

Hastings stood up with an air of resolution. "Yes," he said, "I'm afraid you're quite correct. Anyway, I'll drive over in a day or two, and have a talk with Gregory."

After that they separated. Hastings strolled away to join Dampier.

Sproatly and Winifred walked out on to the prairie. When they had left the house Sproatly turned to his companion.

"Why did you insist upon my telling them what I did?" he asked.

"Oh!" answered Winifred, "I had several reasons. For one thing, when I first came out feeling very forlorn and friendless, it was Wyllard who sent me to the elevator, and they really treat me very decently."

"They?" repeated Sproatly with resentment in his face. "If you mean Hamilton, it seems to me that he treats you with an excess of decency that there's no occasion for."

Winifred laughed. "In any case, he doesn't drive me out here every two or three weeks, though"—she glanced at her companion provokingly—"he once or twice suggested that he would like to."

"I suppose you pointed out his presumption?"

"No," confessed Winifred with an air of reflection, "I didn't go quite so far as that. After all, the man is my employer; I had to handle him tactfully."

"He won't be your employer a week after the implement people open their new depot," returned Sproatly resolutely. "But we're getting away from the subject. Have you any more reasons for concerning yourself about what Gregory does with Wyllard's property?"

"I've one; I suppose you don't know who he has left at least a part of it to?"

Sproatly started as an idea crept into his mind.

"I wonder if you're right," he said.

"I feel reasonably sure of it." Winifred smiled. "In fact, that's partly why I don't want Gregory to throw any more of Wyllard's money away. You have done all I expect from you."

"Then Hastings is to go on with the thing?"

"Hastings," Winifred assured him, "will fail—just as you would. This is a matter which requires to be handled delicately—and effectively."

"Then who is going to undertake it?"

Winifred laughed. "Oh," she answered, "a woman, naturally. I'm going back by and by to have a word or two with Mrs. Hastings."



CHAPTER XXVI

THE RESCUE

Winifred's suspicions soon were proved correct, for Hastings, who drove over to the Range a day or two after her visit, returned home rather disturbed in temper after what he described as a very unsatisfactory interview with Hawtrey.

"I couldn't make the man hear reason," he informed Mrs. Hastings. "In fact, he practically told me that the matter was no concern of mine. I assured him that it concerned me directly as one of the executors of Harry's will, and I'm afraid I afterwards indulged in a few personalities. I expect that blamed mortgage-broker has got a very strong hold on him."

Mrs. Hastings looked thoughtful. "You have never told me anything about the will."

"If I haven't, it wasn't for want of prompting," returned Hastings dryly. "The will was sealed, and handed to me by Harry on the express understanding that it was not to be opened until we had proof that he was dead or until the six months mentioned had expired. If he turned up it would, of course, be handed back to him. He made me promise solemnly that I would not offer the least hint as to its provisions to anybody."

Mrs. Hastings indulged in a shrug indicating resignation. "In that case I suppose I must be content, but he might have made an exception of—me. Anyway, I think I see how we can put what appears to be a little necessary pressure upon Gregory." She turned again to her husband rather abruptly. "After all, is it worth while for me to trouble about the thing?"

Hastings was taken off his guard. "Yes," he said decidedly, "if you can put any pressure on Gregory I guess it would be very desirable to do it as soon as possible."

"Then you think that Harry may turn up, after all?"

"I do," said Hastings gravely, "I don't know why. In any case it's highly desirable that Gregory shouldn't fling his property away."

Mrs. Hastings smiled. "Well," she said, "I'll think over it. I'll probably get Agatha to see what she can do in the first place."

She saw a trace of uncertainty in her husband's face.

"As you like," he said. "Something must be done, but on the whole I'd rather you didn't trouble Agatha about the matter. It would be wiser."

Mrs. Hastings asked no more questions. She believed that she understood the situation, and she had Agatha's interests at heart, for she had grown very fond of the girl. There was certainly one slight difficulty in the way of what she meant to do, but she determined to disregard it, though she admitted that it might, cause Agatha some embarrassment afterward. When she found the girl alone, she sat down beside her.

"My dear," she said, "I wonder if I may ask whether you are quite convinced that Harry is dead?"

She felt that the question was necessary, though it seemed rather a cruel one.

"No," replied Agatha calmly, "I can't quite bring myself to believe it."

"Then, since you heard what Sproatly said, you would be willing to do anything that appeared possible to prevent Gregory throwing Harry's money away?"

"Yes," said Agatha, "I have been thinking about it." A sparkle of disdainful anger showed in her eyes. "Gregory seems to have been acting shamefully."

"Then as he won't listen to Allen, we must get Sally to impress that fact on him."

"Sally?" questioned Agatha in evident astonishment.

Mrs. Hastings smiled. "I don't think you understand Sally as well as I do. Of course, like the rest of us, she falls a long way short of perfection, and—though it's a difficult subject—there's no doubt that her conduct in leading Gregory on while he was still engaged to you was hardly quite correct. After all, however, you owe her something for that."

"It isn't very hard to forgive her for it," confessed Agatha.

"Well, I want you to understand Sally. Right or wrong, she's fond of Gregory. Of course, I've told you this already, but I must try to make it clear how that fact bears upon the business in hand. Sally certainly fought for him, and there's no doubt that one could find fault with several things she did; but the point is that she's evidently determined on making the most of him now she has got him. In some respects, at least, she's absolutely straight—one hundred cents to the dollar is what Allen says of her—and although you might perhaps not have expected this, I believe it would hurt her horribly to feel that Gregory was squandering money that didn't strictly belong to him."

"Then you mean to make her understand what he is doing?"

"No," replied Mrs. Hastings; "I want you to do it. I've reasons for believing that your influence would go further with her than mine. For one thing, I fancy she is feeling rather ashamed of herself."

Agatha looked thoughtful. She had certainly not credited Sally with possessing any fine sense of honor, but she was willing to accept Mrs. Hastings' assurance.

"The situation," she pointed out, "is rather a delicate one. You wish to expose Gregory's conduct to the girl he is going to marry, though, as you admit, the explanation will probably be painful to her. Can't you understand that the course suggested is a particularly difficult and repugnant one—to me?"

"I've no doubt of it," admitted Mrs. Hastings. "Still, I believe it must be adopted—for several reasons. In the first place, I think that if we can pull Gregory up now we shall save him from involving himself irretrievably. After all, perhaps, you owe him the effort. Then I think that we all owe something to Harry, and we can, at least, endeavor to carry out his wishes. He told what was to be done with his possessions in a will, and he never could have anticipated that Gregory would dissipate them as he is doing."

The least reason, as she had foreseen, proved convincing to Agatha, and she made a sign of concurrence.

"If you will drive me over I will do what I can," she promised.

Now that she had succeeded, Mrs. Hastings lost no time, and they set out for the Creighton homestead next day. Soon after they reached the house she contrived that Sally should be left alone with Agatha. The two girls stood outside the house together when Agatha turned to her companion.

"Sally," she said, "there is something that I must tell you."

Sally glanced at her face, and then walked forward until the log barn hid them from the house. She sat down upon a pile of straw and motioned to Agatha to take a place beside her.

"Now," she observed sharply, "you can go on; it's about Gregory, I suppose."

Agatha, who found it very difficult to begin, though she had been well primed by Hastings on the previous evening, sat down in the straw, and looked about her for a moment or two. It was a hot afternoon, dazzlingly bright, and almost breathlessly still. In front of her the dark green wheat rolled waist-high, and beyond it the vast sweep of grass stretched back to the sky-line. Far away a team and a wagon slowly moved across the prairie, but that was the only sign of life, and no sound from the house reached them to break the heavy stillness.

She finally nerved herself to the effort, and spoke earnestly for several minutes before she glanced at Sally. It was evident that Sally had understood all that had been said, for she sat very still with a hard, set face.

"Oh!" Sally exclaimed, "if I'd thought you'd come to tell me this because you were vexed with me, I'd know what to do."

This was what Agatha had dreaded. It certainly looked as if she had come to triumph over her rival's humiliation, but Sally made it clear that she acquitted her of that intention.

"Still," said Sally, "I know that wasn't the reason, and I'm not mad with—you. It hurts"—she made an abrupt movement—"but I know it's true."

She turned to Agatha suddenly. "Why did you do it?"

"I thought you might save Gregory, if I told you."

"That was all?" Sally looked at her with incredulous eyes.

"No," answered Agatha simply, "that was only part. It did not seem right that Gregory should go against Wyllard's wishes, and gamble the Range away on the wheat market."

She admitted it without hesitation, for she realized now exactly what had animated her to seek this painful interview. She was fighting Wyllard's battle, and that fact sustained her.

Sally winced. "Yes" she agreed, "I guess you had to tell me. He was fond of you. One could be proud of that. Harry Wyllard never did anything low down and mean."

Agatha did not resent her candor. Although this was a thing she would scarcely have credited a little while ago, she saw that the girl felt the contrast between Gregory's character and that of the man whose place he had taken, and regretted it. Agatha's eyes became dim with unshed tears.

"Wyllard, they think, is dead," she said, in a low voice. "You have Gregory still."

Sally looked at her with unveiled compassion, and Agatha did not shrink from it.

"Yes," she declared, with a simplicity that became her, "and Gregory must have someone to—take care of him. I must do it if I can."

There was no doubt that Agatha was stirred. This half-taught girl's quiet acceptance of the burden that many women must carry made her almost ashamed.

"We will leave it to you," she said.

It became evident that there was another side to Sally's character, for her manner changed, and the hardness crept back into her face.

"Well," she admitted, "I'd 'most been expecting something of this kind when I heard that man Edmonds was going to the Range. He has got a pull on Gregory, but he's surely not going to feel quite happy when I get hold of him."

She rose in another moment, and saying nothing further, walked back toward the house, in front of which they came upon Mrs. Hastings. Sally looked at Mrs. Hastings significantly.

"I'm going over to the Range after supper," she said.

Mrs. Hastings drove away with Agatha. She said little to the girl during the journey, but an hour after they had reached the homestead she slipped quietly into Agatha's room. She found her reclining in a big chair sobbing bitterly. She sat down close beside her, and laid a hand upon her shoulder.

"I don't think Sally could have said anything to trouble you like this," she said.

It was a moment or two before Agatha turned a wet, white face toward her, and saw gentle sympathy in her eyes. There was, she felt, no cause for reticence.

"No," she said, "it was the contrast between us. She has Gregory."

Mrs. Hastings showed sympathy and comprehension. "And you have lost Harry—but I think you have not lost him altogether. We do not know that he is dead—but even if it be so, it was all that was finest in him that he offered you. It is yours still."

She sat silent a moment or two before she went on again.

"My dear, it is, perhaps, cold comfort, and I am not sure that I can make what I feel quite clear. Still, Harry was only human, and it is almost inevitable that, had it all turned out differently, he would have said and done things that would have offended you. Now he has left you a purged and stainless memory—one, I think, which must come very near to the reality. The man who went up there—for an idea, a fantastic point of honor—sloughed off every taint of the baseness that hampers most of us in doing it. It was a man changed and uplifted above all petty things by a high chivalrous purpose, who made that last grim journey."

Agatha realized the truth of this. Already Wyllard's memory had become etherealized, and she treasured it as a very fine and precious thing. Still, though he now wore immortal laurels, that would not content her when all her human nature cried out for his bodily presence. She wanted him, as she had grown to love him, in the warm, erring flesh, and the vague, splendid vision was cold and remote. There was a barrier greater than that of crashing ice and bitter water between them.

"Oh!" she cried, "I have felt that. I try to feel it always—but just now it's not enough."

She turned her face away with a bitter sob, and Mrs. Hastings, who stooped and kissed her, went out of the room. The older woman knew that the girl had broken down at last, after months of strain.

* * * * *

It happened that Edmonds, the mortgage-broker, drove over to the Range, and found Hawtrey waiting for him in Wyllard's room. It was early in the evening, and he could see the hired men busy outside tossing prairie hay from the wagons into the great barn. The men were half-naked and grimed with dust, but Hawtrey, who was dressed in store clothes, evidently had taken no share in their labors. When Edmonds came in he turned to the money-lender with anxiety in his face.

"Well?" he questioned brusquely.

"Market's a little stiffer," said Edmonds.

Edmonds sat down and stretched out his hand toward the cigar-box on the table, while Hawtrey waited with very evident impatience.

"Still moving up?" he asked.

Edmonds nodded. "It's the other folks' last stand," he declared. "With the wheat ripening as it's doing, the flood that will pour in before the next two months are out will sweep them off the market. I was half afraid from your note that this little rally had some weight with you, and that as one result of it you meant to cover now."

"That," admitted Hawtrey, "was in my mind."

"Then," remarked his companion, "it's a pity."

Hawtrey leaned upon the table with hesitation in his face and attitude. He had neither the courage nor the steadfastness to make a gambler, and every fluctuation of the market swayed him to and fro. He had a good deal of wheat to deliver by and by, and he could still secure a very desirable margin if he bought in against his sales now. Unfortunately, however, he had once or twice lost heavily in an unexpected rally, and he greatly desired to recoup himself. Then, he had decided, nothing could tempt him to take part in another deal.

"If I hold on and the market stiffens further I'll be awkwardly fixed," he declared. "Wyllard made a will, and in a few months I'll have to hand everything over to his executors. There would naturally be unpleasantness over a serious shortage."

Edmonds smiled. He had handled his man cleverly, and had now a reasonably secure hold upon him and the Range, but he was far from satisfied. If Hawtrey made a further loss he would in all probability become irretrievably involved.

"Then," he pointed out, "there's every reason why you should try to get straight."

Hawtrey admitted it. "Of course," he said. "You feel sure I could do it by holding on?"

Edmonds seldom answered such a question. It was apt to lead to unpleasantness afterwards.

"Well," he said, "Beeman, and Oliphant, and Barstow are operating for a fall. One would fancy that you were safe in doing what they do. When men of their weight sell forward figures go down."

This was correct, as far as it went, but Edmonds was quite aware that the gentlemen referred to usually played a very deep and obscure game. He had also reasons for believing that they were doing it now. It was, however, evident that Hawtrey's hesitation was vanishing.

"It's a big hazard, but I feel greatly tempted to hang on," he said.

Edmonds, who disregarded his remark, sat smoking quietly. Since he was tolerably certain as to what the result would be, he felt that it was now desirable to let Hawtrey decide for himself, in which case it would be impossible to reproach him afterwards. Wheat, it seemed very probable, would fall still further when the harvest began, but he had reasons for believing that the market would rally first. In that case Hawtrey, who had sold forward largely, would fall altogether into his hands, and he looked forward with very pleasurable anticipation to enforcing his claim upon the Range. In the meanwhile he was unobtrusively watching Hawtrey's face, and it had become evident that in another moment or two his victim would adopt the course suggested, when there was a rattle of wheels outside. Edmonds, who saw a broncho team and a a wagon appear from behind the barn, realized that he must decide the matter without delay.

"As I want to reach Lander's before it's dark I'll have to get on," he said carelessly. "If you'll give me a letter to the broker, I'll send it to him."

Next moment a clear voice rose somewhere outside.

"I guess you needn't worry," it said, "I'll go right in."

Then Sally walked into the room.

Edmonds was disconcerted, but bowed, and then sat down again, quietly determined to wait, for he discovered that there was hostility in the swift glance she flashed at him.

"That's quite a smart team you were driving, Miss Creighton," he remarked.

Sally, who disregarded this, turned to Hawtrey.

"What's he doing here?" she asked.

"He came over on a little matter of business," answered Hawtrey.

"You have been selling wheat again?"

Hawtrey looked embarrassed, for her manner was not conciliatory. "Well," he admitted, "I have sold some."

"Wheat you haven't got?"

Hawtrey did not answer, and Sally sat down. Her manner suggested that she meant thoroughly to investigate the matter, and Edmonds, who would have greatly preferred to get rid of her, decided that as it appeared impossible he would appeal to her cupidity. The Creightons were grasping folk, and he had heard of her engagement to Hawtrey.

"If you will permit me I'll try to explain," he said. "We'll say that you have reason for believing that wheat will go down and you tell a broker to sell it forward at a price a little below the actual one. If other people do the same it drops faster, and before you have to deliver you can buy it in at less than you sold it at. A great deal of money can be picked up that way."

"It looks easy," Sally agreed, with something in her manner which led him to fancy he might win her over. "Of course, prices have been falling. Gregory has been selling down?"

"He has. In fact, there's already a big margin to his credit," declared Edmonds unsuspectingly.

"That is, if he bought in now he'd have cleared—several thousand dollars?"

Edmonds told her exactly how much, and then started in sudden consternation with rage in his heart, for she turned to Hawtrey imperiously.

"Then you'll write your broker to buy in right away," she said.

There was an awkward silence, during which the two men looked at each other until Edmonds spoke.

"Are you wise in suggesting this, Miss Creighton?" he asked.

Sally laughed harshly. "Oh, yes," she replied, "it's a sure thing. And I don't suggest. I tell him to get it done."

She turned again to Hawtrey, who sat very still looking at her with a flush in his face. "Take your pen and give him that letter to the broker now."

There was this in her favor that Hawtrey was to some extent relieved by her persistence. He had not the courage to make a successful speculator, and he had already felt uneasy about the hazard that he would incur by waiting. Besides, although prices had slightly advanced, he could still secure a reasonable margin if he covered his sales. In any case, he did as she bade him, and in another minute or two he handed Edmonds an envelope.

The broker took it from him without protest, for he was one who could face defeat.

"Well," he said, with a gesture of resignation, "I'll send the thing on. If Miss Creighton will excuse me, I'll tell your man to get out my wagon."

He went out, and Sally turned to Hawtrey with the color in her cheeks and a flash in her eyes.

"It's Harry Wyllard's money!" she commented, as she met his glance with flashing eyes.



CHAPTER XXVII

IN THE WILDERNESS

A bitter wind was blowing when Wyllard stood outside the little tent the morning after he had made a landing on the ice. He was to leeward of the straining canvas which partly sheltered him, but the raw cold struck through him to the bone, and he was stiff and sore from his exertions during the previous day. His joints ached unpleasantly, and his clothing had not quite dried upon him. He was conscious of a strong desire to crawl back into the tent and go to sleep again, but that was one it would clearly not be wise to indulge in, since they were, he believed, still some distance off the beach, and the ice might begin to break up at any moment. It stretched away before him, seamed by fissures and serrated ridges here and there, for a few hundred yards, and then was lost in the snow. As he gazed at it he shrank from the prospect of the journey through the frozen desolation.

With a shiver he crawled back into the tent where his two companions were crouching beside the cooking-lamp. The feeble light of its sputtering blue flame touched their faces, which were graver than usual, but Charly looked up as he came in.

"Wind's dropping," announced Wyllard curtly. "We'll start as soon as you have made breakfast. We must try to reach the beach to-night."

Charly made no answer, though the dusky-skinned Siwash grunted, and in a few more minutes they silently commenced their meal, which was promptly finished. They struck the tent, and packed it with their sleeping-bags and provisions upon the sled, and then, taking up the traces, set out across the ice. The light had grown clearer now, and the snow was thinning, but it still whirled about them, and lay piled in drawn-out wreaths to lee of every hummock or ragged ridge. They floundered knee-deep, and in the softer places the weight upon the traces grew unpleasantly heavy. That, however, was not a thing any of them felt the least desire to complain of, and it was indeed a matter of regret to them that they were not harnessed to a heavier burden. There was a snow-wrapped desolation in front of them, and they had lost a number of small comforts and part of their provisions in making a landing. Whether the provisions could be replaced they did not know.

The small supply of food was an excellent reason for pushing on as fast as possible, and they stumbled and floundered forward until late in the afternoon. The ice became more rugged and broken as they proceeded. The snow had ceased, but the drifts which stretched across their path were plentiful, and they were in the midst of one when it seemed to Wyllard, who was leading, that they were sinking much deeper than usual. The snow was over the tops of his long boots, the sled seemed very heavy, and he could hear his comrades floundering savagely. There was a cry behind him, and he was jerked suddenly backwards for a pace or two until he flung himself down at full length in the snow. After that he was drawn back no further, but the strain upon the trace became almost insupportable, and there was still a furious scuffling behind him.

In a moment or two, however, the strain slackened, and looking round, he saw Charly waist-deep in the snow. Charly struggled out with difficulty, holding on by the trace, but the sled had vanished, and it was with grave misgivings that Wyllard scrambled to his feet. They hauled with all their might, and after a tense effort, that left them gasping, dragged the sled back into sight. Part of its load, however, had been left behind in the yawning hole.

Charly went back a pace or two cautiously until he once more sank to the waist, and they had some trouble in dragging him clear. Then he sat down on the sled, and Wyllard stood still looking at the holes in the snow.

"Did you feel anything under you?" he asked at length in a jarring voice.

"I didn't," said Charly simply. "It was only the trace saved me from dropping through altogether, but if I'd gone a little further I'd have been in the water. Kind of snow bridge over a crevice. We broke it up, and the sled fell through."

Wyllard turned and flung the tent, their sleeping-bags, and the few packages which had not fallen out of the sled, after which he hastily opened one or two of them. His companions looked at them with apprehension in their eyes until he spoke again.

"The provisions may last a week or so, if we cut down rations," he said.

He could not remember afterwards whether anybody suggested it, and he believed that the same idea occurred to all of them at once, but in another moment or two they set about undoing the traces from the sled, and making them secure about their bodies. For half an hour they made perilous attempt after attempt to recover the lost provisions, and failed. The snow broke through continuously beneath the foremost man, but it did not break away altogether, and they could not tell what lay beneath it when they had drawn him out of the hole. When it became evident that the attempt was useless, sitting on the sled, they held a brief council.

"I guess we don't want to go back," said Charly. "It's quite likely we've crossed a good many of these crevices, and the snow's getting soft. Besides, Dampier will have hauled off and headed for the inlet by now."

He spoke quietly, though his face was grave. Pausing a moment, he waved his hand. "It seems to me," he added, "we have got to fetch the inlet while the provisions last."

"Exactly," agreed Wyllard. "Since the chart shows a river between us and it, the sooner we start the better. If the thaw holds, the stream will break up the ice on it."

The Indian, who made no suggestion, grunted what appeared to be concurrence, and they silently set to work to reload the sled. That done, they took up the traces and floundered on again into the gathering dimness and a thin haze of driving snow. Darkness had fallen when they made camp again, and sat, worn-out and aching in every bone, about the sputtering lamp inside the little straining tent. The meal they made was a very frugal one, and they lay down in the darkness after it, for half their store of oil had been left behind in the crevice. They spoke seldom, for the second disaster had almost crushed the courage out of them, and it was clear to all that it would be only by a strenuous effort that they could reach the inlet before their provisions quite ran out. They slept, however, and rising in a stinging frost next morning set out again on the weary march, but it was slow traveling, and at noon they left the tent and poles behind.

"In another few days," said Wyllard, "we'll leave the sled."

They made the beach that afternoon, though the only sign of it was the fringe of more ragged ice and the white slope beyond. A thin haze hung about them heavy with rime, and they could not see more than a quarter of a mile ahead. When darkness fell they scraped out a hollow beneath what seemed to be a snow-covered rock, and sat upon their sleeping-bags. The cooking-lamp gave little heat. Having eaten, they huddled close together with part of their aching bodies upon the sled, but none of them slept much that night, for the cold was severe.

The morning broke clear and warmer, and Wyllard, climbing to the summit of the rock, had a brief glimpse of the serrated summits of a great white range that rose to the west and south. It, however, faded like a vision while he watched it, and turning he looked out across the rolling wilderness that stretched away to the north. Nothing broke its gleaming monotony, and there was no sign of life anywhere in the vast expanse.

They set out after breakfast, breaking through a thin crust of snow, which rendered the march almost insuperably difficult, and they had made a league or two by the approach of night. The snow had grown softer, and the thawing surface would not bear the sled, which sank in the slush beneath. Still, they floundered on for a while after darkness fell, and then lay down in a hollow. A fine rain poured down on them.

Somehow they slept, and, though this was more difficult, got upon their feet again when morning came, for of all the hard things the wanderer in rain-swept bush or frozen wilderness must bear, there is none that tests his powers more than, in the early dawn, the bracing of himself for another day of effort. Comfortless as the night's lair has been, the jaded body craves for such faint warmth as it afforded, and further rest; the brain is dull and heavy, and the aching limbs appear incapable of supporting the weight on them. Difficulties loom appallingly large in the faint creeping light, courage fails, and the will grows feeble. Wyllard and his companions felt all this, but it was clear to them that they could not dally, with their provisions out, and staggering out of camp after a very scanty meal they hauled the sled through the slush for an hour or so. Then they had stopped, gasping, and the Indian slipped out of the traces.

"We've hauled that thing about far enough," said Charly, who dropped the traces, too, and slipped away from the sled.

Wyllard stood looking at them for a moment or two with anxious eyes. It was evident that they could haul the hampering load no further, and he was troubled by an almost insupportable weariness.

"In that case," he said, "you have to decide what you'll leave behind."

They discussed the subject for some minutes, partly because it furnished an excuse for sitting upon the sled, though none of them had much doubt as to the result of the council. It was unthinkable that they should sacrifice a scrap of the provisions. Then, when each man had lashed a light load upon his shoulders with a portion of the cut-up traces, they set out again, and it rained upon them heavily all that day.

During the four following days they were buffeted by a furious wind, but the temperature had risen, and the snow was melting fast, and splashing knee-deep through slush and water they made progress. While he stumbled along with the pack-straps galling his shoulders, Wyllard was conscious of little beyond the unceasing pain in his joints and the leaden heaviness of his limbs. The recollection of that march haunted him like a horrible nightmare long afterwards, when each sensation and incident emerged from the haze of numbing misery. He remembered that he stormed at Charly, who lagged behind now and then in a fit of languid dejection, and that once he fell heavily, and was sensible of a half-conscious regret that he was still capable of going on, when the Indian dragged him to his feet again. They rarely spoke to one another, and noticed nothing beyond the strip of white waste, through which uncovered brown patches commenced to break, immediately in front of them, except when they crossed some low elevation and looked down upon the stretch of dull gray water not far away on one hand. The breeze had swept the ice away, and that was reassuring, because it meant that Dampier would be at the inlet when they reached it, though now and then a horrible fear that their strength would fail them or that their provisions would run out first, crept in.

Their faces had grown gaunt and haggard, and each scanty meal had been cut down to the smallest portion which would keep life and power of movement within them. Still, though the weight of it hampered him almost intolerably, Wyllard clung to the one rifle that they had saved from the disaster at the landing and a dozen cartridges. This was a folly about which he and Charly once had virulent words.

At last they came to a river which flowed across their path, and lay down beside it, feeling that the end was not far away. Except in the eddies and shallows, the ice had broken up, and the stream swirled by in raging flood, thick with heavy masses which it had brought down from its higher reaches. The ice crashed upon the gleaming spurs that here and there projected from the half-thawed fringe, and smashed with a harsh crackling among the boulders, and there was no doubt as to what would befall the stoutest swimmer who might attempt the passage. So far as Wyllard afterwards remembered, none of them said anything when they lay down among the wet stones, but with the first of the daylight they started up stream. The river was not a large one, and it seemed just possible that they might find a means of crossing higher up, though they afterwards admitted that this was a great deal more than they expected.

The ground rose sharply, and the stream flowed out of a deep ravine which they followed. The rocks were of volcanic origin, and some of them had crumbled into heaps of ragged debris. The slope of the ravine became a talus along which it was almost impossible to scramble, and they were forced back upon the boulders and the half-thawed ice in the slacker pools.

They made progress, notwithstanding all the obstacles in their way, and when evening drew near found a little clearer space between rock and river. The Indian had wrenched his knee, and when they stopped to make camp among the rocks it was some little time before he overtook them. He said that he had found the tracks of some animal which he believed had gone up the ravine. What the beast was he did not know, but he was sure that it was, at least, large enough to eat, and that appeared to be of the most importance then. He would not, however, take the rifle. Nothing could compel him to drag himself another rod that night, he said, and the others, who had noticed how he limped, accepted his decision. With an expressionless face he sat down among the stones, and Charly decided that it was Wyllard's part to pick the trail.

"You could beat me every time at trailing or shooting when we went ashore on the American side, and I'm not sorry to let it go at that now," he said.

Wyllard smiled grimly. "And I've carried this rifle a week on top of my other load. You can't shoot when you're dead played out."

They called in the Indian and gave the rifle to him. He gravely pointed to Wyllard.

Charly grinned for the first time in several days.

"Well," he remarked, "in this case I guess I've no objections to let it be as he suggests."

Wyllard resignedly took up the rifle and strode wearily out of camp. There was, he knew, scarcely an hour's daylight left, and already the dimness seemed a little more marked down in the hollow. He, however, found the place where the Indian had seen the animal's track, and as there was a wall of rock on one side, up which he believed the beast could not scramble, he pushed on up stream beside the ice. There was nothing to guide him, but he was a little surprised to feel that his perceptions, which had been dull and dazed for the last few days, were growing clearer. He noticed the different sounds the river made, and picked out the sharp crackle of ice among the stones, though he had hitherto been conscious only of a hoarse, pulsating roar. The rocks also took distinctive shapes instead of looming in blurred masses before his heavy eyes, and he found himself gazing with strained attention into each strip of deeper shadow. Still, though he walked cautiously, there was no sign of any life in the ravine. He was horribly weary, and now and then he set his lips as he stumbled noisily among the stones, but he pushed on beside the water while the deep hollow grew dimmer and more shadowy.



CHAPTER XXVIII

THE UNEXPECTED

After a hard tramp Wyllard felt a troublesome dizziness creeping over him, and he sat down upon a boulder with the rifle across his knees. He had eaten little in the last few days, which had been spent in arduous exertion, and now the leaden weariness which he had fought against since morning threatened to overcome him. In addition to this, he was oppressed by a black dejection, which, though his mind had never been clearer, reacted upon his failing physical powers, for it was now evident that he and his companions could not reach the inlet while their provisions held out. There was no longer any doubt that he had involved the two faithful men in disaster, and the knowledge that he had done so was bitter.

With haggard face he sat gazing up the ravine. Although he scarcely imagined that either of the others had expected anything, he shrank from going back as empty-handed as when he had left them. The light was getting very dim, but he could still see the ice fringe upon the pool in front of him, and a mass of rock that rose black against the creeping dusk not very far away. Beyond it on the one side there seemed to be a waste of stones amid which a few wreaths of snow still gleamed lividly. Then a wall of rock scarcely distinguishable in the shadow shut in the hollow.

The hollow was filled with the hoarse roar of the river and the sharp crash and crackle of stream-driven ice, but by and by the worn-out man started as he caught another faint sound which suggested the clink of a displaced stone. His hands closed hard upon the rifle, but he sat very still, listening with strained attention until he heard the sound again. Then a thrill ran through him, for he was quite certain of it's meaning. A stone had rolled over higher up the gorge, and he rose and crept forward, cautiously, keeping the detached rock between him and the upper portion of the ravine. Once or twice a stone clattered noisily beneath his feet, and he stopped for a moment or two, wondering with tense anxiety whether the sound could be heard at any distance through the roar of the river. This was a much more serious business than crawling through the long grass for a shot at the prairie antelope, when in ease of success it had seemed scarcely worth while to pack the tough and stringy venison back to the homestead.

By and by he heard the clatter of a displaced stone again, and this time the sound was so distinct and near that it puzzled him. The wild creatures of the waste were, he knew, always alert, and their perception of an approaching danger was wonderful. It seemed strange that the beast he was creeping in upon could not hear him, but he realized that he must face the hazard of detection, since in another few minutes it would be too dark to shoot. He had almost reached the rock by this time, and he shifted his grasp on the rifle, holding it thrust forward in front of him while crouching low he looked down for a spot on which to set his foot each time he moved. It would, he knew, be useless to go any further if a stone turned over now. He was fortunate, however, and, strung up to highest tension, he stole into the deeper gloom behind the rock.

A little pool ran in close beneath the rock, but it was covered with ice and slushy snow. Treading cautiously, he crept across it, and held his breath as he moved out from behind the rock. He stopped suddenly, for a man stood face to face with him scarcely a stone's throw away. The stranger's fur-clad figure cut sharply against a gleaming back of snow, and he held a gun in his hand. Though the light had almost gone, it was evident to Wyllard that he was a white man.

They stood very still for several seconds gazing at each other, and then the stranger dropped the butt of his weapon and called out sharply, uttering words in a tongue that Wyllard did not recognize. Wyllard did not move and the man spoke again. What he said was still unintelligible, but this time Wyllard knew that he was trying German. When he received only a shake of the head as an answer, the stranger tried again. This time is was French that he spoke.

"You can come forward, comrade," he said.

He did not seem to be hostile, and Wyllard, who tossed his rifle into the hollow of his left arm, moved out a pace or two to meet him.

"You are Russian?" he questioned in the language the other had used, for French is freely spoken in parts of Canada.

The man laughed. "That afterwards," he answered.

"It is said so. My name is Overweg—Albrecht Overweg. As to you, it appears you do not understand Russian."

Wyllard drew a little nearer, and sat down upon a boulder. Now that the tension had slackened, his weariness had once more become almost insupportable, and he felt that he might need his strength and senses. He was bewildered by the encounter, for it was certainly astonishing in that desolate wilderness to fall in with a man who spoke three civilized languages and wore spectacles.

"No," he replied, after a slight pause, "it is almost the first time I have heard Russian spoken."

"Ah," responded the other, "there is a certain significance in that admission, my friend. May I inquire where you have come from, and what you are doing here?"

Wyllard, who had no desire to give him any information concerning the quest for his lost comrades, pointed towards the east.

"That is where I come from. As to my business at the moment you will excuse me. It is perhaps not a rudeness to ask what is yours."

The stranger laughed. "Caution, it seems, is necessary; and to the east, where you have pointed, there is only the sea. I will, however, tell you my business. It is science, and not"—he seemed to add this with a certain significance—"in any way connected with the administration of the country."

Wyllard was conscious of a vast relief on hearing this, but as he was not quite sure that he could believe it, he felt that prudence was still advisable. In any case, he could not let the stranger go away until he had learned whether there were any more white men with him. He sat still, thinking hard for a moment or two.

"You have a camp somewhere near?" he asked at length.

"Certainly," replied the man. "You will come back with me, or shall I come to yours?"

"There are several of you?"

"Besides myself, two Kamtchadales."

"Then," said Wyllard, "I will come with you. I have left two comrades a little further down the ravine. Will you wait until I bring them?"

The stranger made a sign of assent, and sitting down upon a ledge of rock took out a cigar. Wyllard now felt more sure of him, since it was evident that had he meditated any treachery he would naturally have preferred him to make the visit unattended. In any case, it seemed likely that he would have something to eat in his camp.

Wyllard plodded back down the ravine, and when he returned with his comrades Overweg was still sitting there in the gathering darkness. He greeted them with a wave of his hand, and rising, silently led the way up the hollow until they came in sight of a little tent that glimmered beneath a rock. There was a light inside the tent and two dusky figures were silhoueted against the canvas. Overweg drew the flap back, and the light shone upon his face as he signed them to enter. Wyllard, standing still a moment, looked at him steadily, and then, seeing a reassuring smile, went in.

Overweg called to one of the Kamtchadales, who came in and busied himself about the cooking-lamp. The three famished men sat down with a sense of luxurious content among the skins that were spread upon the ground sheet. After the raw cold outside the tent was very snug and warm. Wyllard said little, however, and Overweg made no attempt at conversation until the Kamtchadale laid out a meal, when he watched his guests with a smile while they ate voraciously. He had stripped off his furs, and with his knees drawn up sat on one of the skins. He was a little, plump, round-faced man, with tow-colored hair, and eyes that gleamed shrewdly behind his spectacles.

"Shall I open another can?" he asked presently.

"No," answered Wyllard. "We owe you thanks enough already. Provisions are evidently plentiful with you."

Overweg nodded. "I have a base camp two or three days' journey back," he explained. "It is possible that I shall make a depot. We brought our stores up from the south with dog sleds before the snow grew soft, but it is necessary for me to push on further. My business, you understand, is the scientific survey; to report upon the natural resources of the country."

He paused, and his manner changed a little when he went on again. "I have," he added, "to this extent taken you into my confidence, and I invite an equal candor. Two things are evident. You have made a long journey, and your French is not that one hears in Paris."

"First of all," said Wyllard, "I must ask again, are you a Russian?"

Overweg shrugged his shoulders. "My name, which I have told you, is not Slavonic, and it may be admitted that I was born in Bavaria. In the meanwhile, it is true that I have been sent on a mission by the Russian Government."

"I wonder," remarked Wyllard reflectively, "how far you consider your duty towards your employers goes."

Overweg's eyes twinkled. "It covers all that can be ascertained about the geological structure and the fauna of the country, especially the fauna that produce marketable furs. At present I am not convinced that it goes very much further."

It was clear to Wyllard that he was already in this man's hands, since he could not reach the inlet without provisions, and Overweg could, if he thought fit, send back a messenger to the Russian authorities. He was one who could think quickly and make a momentous decision, and he realized that if he could not win the man's sympathy there must be open hostility between them.

"In that case I think I may tell you what has brought me here," he said. "If you have traveled much in Kamtchatka you can, perhaps, help me. To begin with, I sailed from Vancouver, in Canada, nearly a year ago."

It required some time to make his errand clear, and then Overweg looked at him with an inscrutable expression.

"It is," said the scientist, "a tale that in these days one finds some little difficulty in believing. Still, it must be admitted that I am acquainted with one fact which appears to substantiate it."

As he saw the blood rise to Wyllard's forehead he broke off with a laugh.

"My friend," he added, "is it permitted to offer you my felicitations? The men who would attempt a thing of this kind are, I think, singularly rare."

"What is the fact that gives me at least partial credence?" asked Wyllard, impatiently.

"There is a Kamtchadale in my base camp who told me of a place where a white man was buried some distance to the west of us. He spoke of a second white man, but nobody, I understand, knows what became of him."

Wyllard straightened himself suddenly. "You will send for that Kamtchadale?"

"Assuredly. The tale you have told me has stirred my curiosity. As my path lies west up the river valley, we can, if it pleases you, go on for a while together."

Wyllard, who thanked him, turned to Charly with a sigh of relief.

"It seems that we shall not bring those men back, but I think we may find out where they lie," he said.

Charly made no comment, for this was the most he had expected, and a few minutes later there was silence in the little tent when the men lay down to sleep among the skins.

They started at sunrise next morning, and followed the river slowly by easy stages until the man sent back to Overweg's base camp overtook them with another Kamtchadale. Then they pushed on still further inland, and it was a week later when one evening their guide led them up to a little pile of stones upon a lonely ridge of rock. There were two letters very rudely cut on one of the stones, and Wyllard, who stooped down beside it, took off his cap when he rose.

"There's no doubt that Jake Leslie lies here," he said. Looking at Overweg, he asked, "Your man is sure there was only one white man who buried him?"

Overweg spoke to the Kamtchadale, who answered:

"There was only one white man. It seems he went inland afterwards—at least a year ago."

Wyllard turned to Charly, and his face was very grave. "That makes it certain that two of them have died. There was one left, and he may be dead by this time." He made a forceful gesture. "If one only knew!"

Charly made no answer. He was not a man of education or much imagination, but like others of his kind he had alternately borne many privations in the wilderness, logging, prospecting, trail-cutting about the remoter mines, and at sea. As one result of this there crept into his mind some recognition of what the outcast who lay at rest beside their feet had had to face—the infinite toil of the march, the black despair, the blinding snow, and Arctic frost. He met his leader's gaze with a look of comprehending sympathy.

By what grim efforts and primitive devices their comrade had clung to life for a time, it seemed probable they would never know, but they clearly realized that, though some might call it an illegal raid, or even piracy, it was a work of mercy this outlaw had undertaken when he was cast away. In the command to swing the boats over and face the roaring surf in the darkness of the night he had heard the clear call of duty, and had fearlessly obeyed. His obedience had cost him much, but as the man who had come so far to search for him looked down upon the little pile of stones there in the desolate wilderness, there awoke within him a sure recognition of the fact that this was not the end. That, at least, was unthinkable. His comrade, putting off the half-frozen, suffering flesh, had gone on to join the immortals with his duty done.

It was with warmth at his heart and a slight haziness in his eyes that Wyllard turned away at length, but when he put on his fur cap again he was more determined than ever to carry out the search. There were many perils and difficulties to be faced, but he felt that he must not flinch.

"One man went inland," he said to Overweg. "I must go that way, too."

The little spectacled scientist looked at him curiously.

"Ah," he replied, "the road your comrade traveled is a hard one. You have seen what it leads to."

Then Wyllard gave another a glimpse of the emotion that he generally kept hidden deep in him.

"No," he said, quietly, "the hard road leads further—where we do not know—but one feels that the full knowledge will not bring sorrow when it is some day given to those who have the courage to follow."

Overweg waved a hand as he spoke. "It is not the view of the materialists, but it is conceivable that the materialists may be wrong," he responded. "In this case, however, it is the concrete and practical we have to grapple with, my friend. You say you are going inland to search for that man, and for a while I go that way, but though I have my base camp there is the question of provisions if you come with me."

They discussed the matter until Wyllard suggested that he could replace any provisions his companion supplied him with from the schooner, to which Overweg agreed, and they afterwards decided to send the Siwash and one of the Kamtchadales on to the inlet with a letter to Dampier. The two messengers started next day, when they found a place where the river was with difficulty fordable, and the rest pushed on slowly into a broken and rising country seamed with belts of thin forest here and there. They held westwards for another week, and then one evening made their camp among a few stunted, straggling firs. The temperature had risen in the daytime, but the nights were cold, and when they had eaten their evening meal they were glad of the shelter of the tent. A small fire of resinous branches was sinking into a faintly glowing mass close outside the canvas.

The flap was drawn back, and Wyllard, who lay facing the opening, could see a triangular patch of dim blue sky with a sharp sickle moon hanging low above a black fir branch. The night was clear and still, but now and then among the stunted trees there was a faint elfin sighing that quickly died away again. While still determined, Wyllard was moodily discouraged, for they had seen no sign of human life during the journey, and his reason told him that he might search for years before he found the bones of the last survivor of the party. Still, he meant to search while Overweg was willing to supply him with provisions.

By and by he saw Charly sharply raise his head and gaze towards the opening.

"Did you hear anything outside?" asked Charly.

"It must be the Kamtchadales," Wyllard answered.

"They went back a mile or two to lay some traps."

"Then," said Wyllard, decisively, "it couldn't have been anything."

Charly did not appear satisfied, and it seemed to Wyllard that Overweg was also listening, but there was deep stillness outside now, and he dismissed the matter from his mind. A few minutes later, however, it seemed to him that a shadowy form appeared out of the gloom among the firs and faded into it again. This struck him as very curious, since if it had been one of the Kamtchadales he would have walked straight into camp, but he said nothing to his companions, and there was silence for a while until Charly rose softly to his feet.

"Get out as quietly as you can," he said, as he slipped by Wyllard, who crept after him to the entrance.

When he reached it Wyllard's voice rang out with a startling vehemence.

"Stop right now," he cried, and after a pause, "Nobody's going to hurt you. Walk right ahead."

Wyllard felt his heart beat furiously, for a dusky, half-seen figure materialized out of the gloom, and grew into sharper form as it drew nearer to the sinking fire. The thing was wholly unexpected, almost incredible, but it was clear that the man could understand English, and his face was white. In another moment Wyllard's last doubt vanished, and he sprang forward with a gasp.

"Lewson—Tom Lewson!" he cried.

Charly thrust the man inside the tent, and when somebody lighted a lamp Lewson sat down stupidly and looked at them. His face was gaunt and almost blackened by exposure to the frost, his hair was long, and tattered garments of greasy skins hung about him. There was something that suggested bewildered incredulity in his eyes.

"It's real?" he said, slowly and haltingly. "You have come at last?"

They assured him that this was the case. For a moment or two the man's face was distorted with a strange look and he made a hoarse sound in his throat.

"Lord," he muttered! "if I'm dreaming I don't want to wake."

Charly leaned forward and smote him on the shoulder.

"Shall I hit you like I did that afternoon in the Thompson House on the Vancouver water front?" he asked.

Then the certainty of the thing seemed to dawn upon the man, for he quivered, and his eyes half closed. After that he straightened himself with an effort.

"I should have known, and I think I did," he said, turning to Wyllard. "Something seemed to tell me that you would come for us when you could."

Wyllard's face flushed, but he made no answer, and it was Charly who asked the next question:

"The others are dead?"

Lewson made an expressive gesture. "Hopkins was drowned in a crevice of the ice. I buried Leslie back yonder."

He broke off abruptly, as though speech cost him an effort, and Wyllard turned to Overweg.

"This is the last of the men I was looking for," he announced.

Overweg quietly nodded. "Then you have my felicitations—but it might be advisable if you did not tell me too much," he remarked. "Afterwards I may be questioned by those in authority."



CHAPTER XXIX

CAST AWAY

Tom Lewson had been an hour in camp before he began the story of his wanderings, and at first, lying propped up on one elbow, with the lamplight on his worn face, he spoke slowly and with faltering tongue.

"We broke an oar coming off the beach that night, and it kind of crippled us," he said. "Twice the boat nearly went back again in the surf, and I don't quite know how we pulled her off. Anyway, one of us was busy heaving out the water that broke into her. It was Jake, I think, and he seemed kind of silly. Once we saw a boat hove up on a sea, but we lost her in the spray, and a long while after we saw the schooner. Just then a comber that broke on board 'most hove us over, and when we had dodged the next two there wasn't a sign of the schooner. After that we knew that we were done, and we just tried to keep her head-to and ease her to the seas."

He stopped a moment, and looked around at the others with troubled eyes, as if trying to marshal uncertain memories. He was a simple sailorman, who contented himself with the baldest narrative; still, two of those who heard him could fill in the things he had not mentioned—the mad lurching of the half-swamped boat, the tense struggle with the oars each time a big frothing comber forged out of the darkness, and the savage desperation of the drenched and half-frozen men cast away with the roaring surf to lee of them and their enemies watching upon the hammered beach.

"It blew hard that night," he continued. "Somehow our little boat lived through it, but there wasn't a sign of the island when morning came—nothing but the combers and the flying haze! Guess the wind must have shifted a few points and drove us by the end of it. Then we found Jake had his head laid open by a sealing club. The sea was getting longer, and as we were too played out to hold the boat to it we got her away before it, and somehow she didn't roll over. I think it was next day, though it might have been longer, when we fetched another island. She just washed up on it, and one of the others pulled me out. There wasn't a sign of anybody on the beach, but there were plenty of skinned holluschickie seals on the slope behind it, and that was fortunate for us."

"You struck nobody on the island?" questioned Wyllard.

"We didn't," Lewson answered simply. "The Russians must have sent a vessel to take off the killers after the last drive of the season a day or two before, for the holluschickie were quite fresh. It was blowing hard and the surf was getting steep, and the men had left quite a few of their things behind them. We found the shacks that the killers lived in, and we made out that winter in one of them."

It occurred to Wyllard that this was a thing very few men except sealers could have done had they been cast ashore without stores or tools to face the awful winter of the North.

"How did you get through?" he asked.

"Well," explained Lewson, "we had a rifle, and the ca'tridges weren't spoilt. The killers hadn't taken their cooking outfit, and by and by we got a walrus in an open lane among the ice. They'd left some gear behind them, but we were most of two days cutting and heaving the beast out with a parbuckle under him. There was no trouble about things keeping in that frost. Besides, we'd the holluschickie blubber to burn, and there was a half-empty bag or two of stores in one of the shacks. No, we hadn't any great trouble in making out."

"You had to stay there until the ice broke up," Charly observed.

"And after. The boat was gone, and we couldn't get away. She broke up in the surf, and we burned what we saved of her. At last a schooner came along, and we hid out across the island until she'd gone away. It was blowing fresh, and hazy, and she just shoved a new gang of killers ashore. There was an Okotsk Russian with them, but he made no trouble for us. He was white, anyway, and it kind of seemed to me he didn't like one of the other men who got hurt that night on the beach."

"Then some of them did get badly hurt?" Wyllard broke in.

"Well," Lewson said, "from what that Russian told us—and we got to understand each other after a time—one of the killers had his ribs broke, and it seems that another would go lame for life. Besides, among other things, there was a white man got his face quite smashed. I saw him with his nose flattened way out to starboard, and one eye canted. He was a boss of some kind. They called him Smirnoff."

Overweg looked up sharply. "Ah," he commented, "Smirnoff. A man with an unsavory name. I have heard of him."

"Anyway," Lewson went on, "we killed seals all the open season with that Russian, and I've no fault to find with him. In fact, I figure that if he could have fixed it he'd have left us on the island that winter, but when a schooner came to take the killers off and collect the skins Smirnoff was on board of her. That"—an ominous gleam crept into Lewson's eyes—"was the real beginning of the trouble. He had us hauled up before him—guess the other man had to tell him who we were—and when I wouldn't answer he slashed me across the face with a dog whip."

Lewson clenched a lean brown fist. "Yes" he added, hoarsely, "I was whipped—but they should have tied my hands first. It was not my fault I didn't have that man's life. It was 'most a minute before three of them pulled me off him, and he was considerably worse to look at then."

There was silence for a minute or two, and Wyllard, who felt his own face grow warm, saw the suggestive hardness in Charly's eyes. Lewson was gazing out into the darkness, but the veins were swollen on his forehead and his whole body had stiffened.

"We'll let that go. I can't think of it," he said, recovering his composure. "They put us on board the schooner, and by and by she ran into a creek on the coast. We were to be sent somewhere to be dealt with, and we knew what that meant, with what they had against us. Well, they went ashore to collect some skins from the Kamtchadales, and at night we cut the boat adrift. We got off in the darkness, and if they followed they never trailed us. Guess they figured we couldn't make out through the winter that was coming on."

So far the story had been more or less connected and comprehensible. It laid no great tax on Wyllard's credulity, and, indeed, all that Lewson described had come about very much as Dampier had once or twice suggested; but it seemed an almost impossible thing that the three men should have survived during the years that followed. Lewson, as it happened, never made that matter very clear. He sat silent for almost a minute before he went on again.

"We hauled the boat out, and hid her among the rocks, and after that we fell in with some Kamtchadales going north," he said. "They took us along, I don't know how far, but they were trapping for furs, and after a time—I think it was months after—we got away from them. Then we fell in with another crowd, and went on further north with them. They were Koriaks, and we lived with them a long while—a winter and a summer anyway. It was more, perhaps—I can't remember."

He broke off with a vague gesture, and sat looking at the others vacantly with his lean face furrowed.

"We must have been with them two years—but I don't quite know. It was all the same up yonder—ever so far to the north."

It seemed to Wyllard that he had seldom heard anything more expressive in its way than this sailorman's brief and fragmentary description of his life in the wilderness. He had heard from whaler-skippers a little about the tundra that fringes the Polar Sea, the vast desolation frozen hard in summer a few inches below the surface, on which nothing beyond the mosses ever grew. It was easy to understand the brain-crushing sameness and monotony of an existence checkered only by times of dire scarcity on those lonely shores.

"How did you live?" he asked.

"There were the birds in summer, and fish in the rivers. In winter we killed things in the lanes in the ice, though there were weeks when we lay about the blubber lamp in the pits. They made pits and put a roof on them. I don't know why we staked there, but Jake had always a notion that we might get across to Alaska—somehow. We were way out on the ice one day when Jim fell into a crevice, and we couldn't get him out."

He stopped, and sat still a while as one dreaming. "I can't put things together, but at last we came south, Jake and I, and struck the Kamtchadales again. We could talk to them, and one of them told us about a schooner lying in an inlet by a settlement. The Russians had brought her there from the islands, and she must have been a sealer. Jake figured it was just possible we might run away with her and push across for the Aleutians or Alaska."

Charly looked up suddenly. "She—was—a sealer—Hayson's Seminole. I was in Victoria when we heard that the Russians had seized her."

Wyllard turned to Overweg, who nodded when he asked a question in French.

"Yes," he said, "I believe the vessel lies in the inlet still. They have used her now and then. It is understood that they were warranted in seizing her, but I think there was some diplomatic pressure brought to bear on them, for they sent her crew home."

Lewson went on again. "Food was scarce that season, and we got 'most nothing in the traps," he said. "Besides, there were Russians out prospecting, and that headed us off. We figured that some of the Kamtchadales who traded skins to the settlements would put them on our trail. When we went to look for the boat she'd gone, but we hadn't much notion of getting off in her, though another time—I don't remember when—we gave two Kamtchadales messages we'd cut on slips of wood. Sometimes the schooners stood in along the coast."

Wyllard nodded. "Dunton of the Cypress got your message," he said. "He was in difficulties then, but he afterwards sent it me."

"Well," said Lewson, "there isn't much more to it. We hung about the beach a while, and then went north before the winter. Jake played out on the trail. By and by he had to let up, and in a day or two I buried him."

His voice grew hoarse. "After that it didn't seem to matter what became of me, but I kept the trail somehow, and found I couldn't stay up yonder. That's why I started south with some of them before the summer came. Now I'm here—talking English—talking with white men—but it doesn't seem the same as it should have been—without the others."

He talked no more that night, but Wyllard translated part of his story for the benefit of Overweg.

"The thing, it seems incredible," commented the scientist. "This man, who has so little to tell, knows things which would make a trained explorer famous."

"It generally happens that way," said Wyllard. "The men who know can't tell."

Overweg made a sign of assent, and then changed the subject.

"What shall you do now?" he asked.

"Start for the inlet, where we expect to find the schooner, at sunrise. I want to say"—Wyllard hesitated—"that you have laid an obligation on me which I can never repay; but I can, at least, replace the provisions you have given me."

"That goes for nothing," declared Overweg, with a smile. "I have, however, drawn upon my base camp rather heavily, and should be glad of any stores from the schooner that you could let me have. The difficulty is that I do not wish to go too far toward the beach."

They arranged a rendezvous a few days' march from the inlet, and in another half-hour all of them were fast asleep.

When the first of the daylight came Wyllard set off with his two companions, and since it was evident that Dampier must have now lain in the inlet awaiting them a considerable time, they marched fast for several days. Then, to their consternation, they came upon the Siwash lying beside a river badly lame. It appeared that in climbing a slippery ridge of rock the knee he had injured had given way, and he had fallen some distance heavily, after which the Kamtchadale, finding him helpless, had disappeared with most of the provisions. None of the party ever learned what had become of the faithless courier, but they realized that the situation was now a rather serious one. Charly, who looked at Wyllard when he had heard the Indian's story, explained it concisely.

"I'm worrying about the boat we left on the edge of the ice," he said. "I've had a notion all along it was going to make trouble. Dampier would see the wreckage when he ran in, and I guess it would only mean one thing to him. He'd make quite certain he was right when he didn't find us at the inlet." He paused and pointed towards the distant sea. "You have got to push right on with Lewson as fast as you can while I try to bring the Siwash along."

Wyllard started within the next few minutes, and afterward never quite forgot the strain and stress of that arduous march. The journey that he had made with Overweg had been difficult enough, but they had then traversed rising ground from which most of the melting snow had drained away. Now, however, as they approached the more level littoral there were wide tracts of mire and swamp to be painfully floundered through, while every ravine and hollow was swept by a frothing torrent, and they had often to search for hours for a place where it was possible to cross. To make things worse, they were drenched with rain half the time, and trails of dingy mist obscured their path, but they toiled on stubbornly through every obstacles, though it was only by the tensest effort that Wyllard kept pace with his companion. The gaunt, long-haired Lewson seemed proof against physical weariness, and there was seldom any change in the expression of his grim, lined face. Now and then Wyllard felt a curious shrinking as he glanced at Lewson, for his fixed look suggested what he had borne in the awful solitudes of the frozen North.

Slowly, with infinite toil, they crossed the weary leagues, lying at night with a single skin between them and the soil, for they traveled light. Wyllard was limping painfully, with his boots worn off his feet, when one morning they came into sight of a low promontory which rose against a stretch of gray lifeless sea. His heart throbbed fast as he realized that behind it lay the inlet into which Dampier had arranged to bring the Selache. He glanced at Lewson, who said nothing, and they plodded forward faster than before.

The misty sun was high in the heavens when they reached the foot of the steep rise, and Wyllard gasped heavily as they crept up the ascent. He was making a severe muscular effort; but it was the nervous tension that troubled him most, for he knew that he would look down upon the inlet from the summit. He blamed himself bitterly for not sending a messenger to Dampier immediately after he fell in with Overweg. There had certainly been difficulties in the way, for the increase in the scientist's party had made additional packers necessary, and Wyllard felt that he could not reasonably compel the man who had succored him to leave behind the camp comforts to which he had evidently been accustomed. In spite of that, he had been at fault in not disregarding every objection, and he realized it now.

Somehow he kept pace with Lewson, but he closed one hand tight as he neared the top of the promontory. When he reached the summit he stopped suddenly, and his face set hard as he looked down. Beneath him lay a strip of dim, green water, with a fringe of soft white surf, while beyond the beach there stretched away an empty expanse of slowly heaving sea. There was no schooner in the inlet, no boat upon the beach.

In another moment or two they went down the slope at a stumbling run, and then stopped, gasping by the water's edge, and looked at one another. There were marks in the sand which showed where a boat had been drawn up not very long before. The Selache evidently had been there, and had sailed away again.

Wyllard sat down limply upon the shingle, for all the strength seemed suddenly to melt out of him, and it was several minutes before he looked up. Gazing out at sea, Lewson was still standing, a shapeless, barbaric figure in his garments of skins. The hide moccasins he wore had chafed through, and Wyllard noticed that the blood was trickling from one of his feet.

"Well?" Lewson asked harshly.

Wyllard laid a stern restraint upon himself. Their case looked desperate, but it must be grappled with.

"We must go back and meet the rest," he said. "That first—what is to come afterwards I don't quite know." A faint gleam of resolution crept into his eyes. "The schooner the Russians seized lies in an inlet down the coast."

Lewson made a sign of comprehension. "There are four of us. There will be birds by and by. I can trap things."

He flung himself down near his comrade, and for an hour neither of them spoke. Wyllard was worn out physically and limp from the last few hours' mental strain, while Lewson very seldom said more than was absolutely necessary. They made a very frugal meal, and long afterwards Wyllard was haunted by the memory of that dreary afternoon during which he lay upon the shingle watching the slow pulsations of the dim, lifeless sea.

They set out again early next morning, and, as it happened, found a little depot of provisions that Dampier had made, but it was several days before they met Charly and the Indian, and another week had passed before Overweg reached the appointed meeting-place. The scientist listened to Wyllard's story gravely, and then appeared to consider.

"You have some plans?" he asked.

Wyllard admitted that this was the case, and Overweg smiled behind his spectacles.

"It is, perhaps, better that you should not tell me what they are," he said. "There is, however, one thing I can do. You say you left some stores you could not carry at the depot, which I will take, for provisions are now not plentiful with me, but at my base camp there are still a few things you have not which are almost necessary, and"—he made a gesture of reassuring significance—"after all, if I have to go south a little earlier than I intended it is not a great matter."

He wrote on a strip of paper which he handed to Wyllard. "You will take these, and nothing else. I may add that Smirnoff is stationed at the inlet where the schooner lies."

Wyllard thanked him, and then looked him in the eyes. "There is a long journey before us, and you have only my word that I will take nothing but these things."

Overweg nodded quietly. "Yes," he said, "it is perhaps permissible to assure you that it is sufficient for me."

Little more was said, and in another half-hour Wyllard and his companions were ready to set out. He and the little spectacled scientist grasped each other's hands, and then Wyllard abruptly turned away. Looking back a few minutes later, he saw Overweg standing upon the ridge where he had left him, silhouetted against a low, gray sky. The scientist raised his cap once, and Wyllard, who answered him, swung around once more, and strode faster towards the south.



CHAPTER XXX

THE LAST EFFORT

It was after a long and arduous journey which had left its mark on all of them that Wyllard and his companions, one lowering evening, lay among the boulders beside a sheltered inlet waiting for the dusk to fall. They were cramped and aching, for they had scarcely moved during the last hour. Their garments were badly tattered, and their half-covered feet were bleeding. With three knives and one rifle among them they were a pitiful company to seize a vessel, but there was resolution in their haggard faces.

Close in front of them the green water lapped softly among the stones. The breeze was light off shore, and the tide, which was just running ebb, rippled against the bows of a little schooner lying some thirty yards from the bank. The vessel had been seized for illegal sealing some years earlier, and it was evident that she had been little used since then. The paint was peeling from her cracked and weathered side, her gear was frayed and bleached with frost and rain, and only very hardpressed men would have faced the thought of going to sea in her. Wyllard and his companions were, however, very hardpressed indeed, and they preferred the hazards of a voyage in the crazy vessel to falling into the Russians' hands. It was also clear that they had no choice. It must be either one thing or the other.

Some little distance up stream a low hill cut against the dingy sky. It shut off all of the upper part of the inlet which wound in behind it, but Wyllard and his companions had cautiously climbed the slope earlier in the afternoon, and, lying flat upon the summit, had looked down upon the little wooden houses that clustered above the beach. He had then decided that this part of the inlet would dry out at about half-ebb, and as the schooner's boat, which he meant to seize lay upon the shingle, it was evident that he must carry out his plans within the next three hours.

These plans were very simple. There was nobody on board the schooner, which lay in deeper water, and he believed that it would be possible to swim off to her and slip the cable; but they must have provisions, and there was, so far as he could see, only one way of obtaining them. A building which stood by itself close beside the beach was evidently a store, for he had seen two men carrying bags and cases out of it under the superintendence of a third in some kind of uniform, and it appeared to be unguarded. Wyllard had reasons for surmising that the store contained Government supplies, and had arranged that Charly and Lewson should break into it as soon as darkness fell. They were to pull off to the schooner with anything they could find inside. Whether they would succeed in doing this he did not know, and he admitted to himself that it scarcely seemed probable, but he could think of no other plan, and the attempt must be made.

A thin haze drove across the crest of the hill, the breeze freshened slightly, and the little ripples lapped more noisily along the shingle. There was evidently a great deal of fresh water coming down the inlet, and it was in a fever of impatience he watched the schooner strain at her cable. That evening had already seemed the longest he had ever spent in his life. By and by it began to rain, and little streams of chilly water trickled about the weary men, but they lay still, with lips tight set in tense suspense. What Lewson had had to face in the awful icy wastes to the north of them Wyllard could scarcely imagine, and Lewson could not tell, but he and his two other comrades had borne things almost beyond endurance since he began his search, and now there was far too much at stake for him to increase the odds against them by any undue precipitancy. He was then in a dangerous mood, but he had laid his plans with grim, cold-blooded caution, and he meant to adhere to them.

Very slowly the light faded, until the beach grew shadowy, and the schooner's spars and rigging showed dim and blurred against a dusky background. The rise that shut off the settlement was lost in drifting haze, and the dull rumble of the surf on the outer beach came up more sharply through the gathering darkness. The measured beat of the tide's deep pulsations almost maddened Wyllard as he lay and listened, for if all went right, in an hour or two he would be sliding out over the long heave with every sail piled on to the crazy schooner.

When there was only a faint gleam of water sliding by below, he rose stiffly to his feet, and Lewson stretched out a hand for the rifle that lay among the stones. There was a sharp click as he jerked the lever, and then he laughed, a little jarring laugh, as the magazine snapped back.

"They'll treat us as pirates if they get hands on us—and I've been lashed in the face—with a sled-dog-whip," he said.

Charly made no remark as he loosed the long seaman's knife in his belt. Wyllard could not utter a remonstrance, for there is, as he recognized, a point beyond which prudence does not count. After what Overweg had once or twice told him, it was unthinkable that they should fall into Smirnoff's hands.

Lewson and Charly melted away into the darkness. Wyllard and the Siwash walked quietly down to the water's edge, a little up-stream of the schooner, as the stream was running strong. As they waited a few moments before plunging into the sea they stripped off nothing, for it was evident that none of the rags they left behind could be replaced, and they knew from experience that when the first shock is over a man swimming in icy water is kept a little warmer by his clothing. For all that, the cold struck through Wyllard when he flung himself forward and swung his left hand out. It was perhaps a minute before he was clearly conscious of anything beyond the physical agony and the mental effort to retain control of his faculties. Then he made out the schooner, a vague, blurred shape a little down-stream, and he swam furiously, his face dipping under each time his left hand came out.

He drew level with the vessel, clutched at her cable, a foot short, and was driven against her bows. The stream swept him onward, gasping, and clawing savagely at the slippery side of the schooner, until his fingers found a hold. It was merely the rounded top of a bolt that he touched, but with a desperate effort he clutched the bent iron that led up from it to one of the dead-eyes of the mainmast-shrouds. He could not, however, draw himself up any further, and he hung on, wondering when his strength would fail him. The Siwash, who had crawled up the cable, leaned down from above and seized his shoulder. In another moment he reached the rail, and went staggering across the deck, dripping and half-dazed.

Action was imperatively necessary, and he braced himself for the effort. The schooner was lying with her anchor up-stream, but he did not think it would be possible to heave her over it and break it out unless he waited until the others arrived, and it would then be a lengthy and, what was more to the purpose, a noisy operation. The anchor must be sacrificed, but there was the difficulty that in the dark he could hardly expect to find a shackle on the cable. Running forward with the Siwash, he pulled out a chain stopper, and then shipping the windlass levers found with vast relief that it would work. It would make a horribly distinct clanking, he knew, but that could not be helped, and the next thing was to discover whether the end of the chain was made fast below, for it is very seldom that a skipper finds it necessary to pay out all his cable.

Dropping into the darkness of the locker beneath the forecastle, he was more fortunate than he could reasonably have expected to be, for as he crawled over the rusty links he felt a shackle. It appeared to be of the usual harp-pattern with a cottered pin, and he called out sharply to the Siwash, who presently flung him an iron bar and a big spike. He struck one of the two or three sulphur matches he had carefully treasured, and when the sputtering blue flame went out set to work to back the pin out in the dark. He smashed his knuckles and badly bruised his hands, but he succeeded, and knew that he had shortened the chain by two-thirds now.

He scrambled up on deck again and hurried aft for the vessel's kedge had been laid out astern to prevent her swinging. There was a heavy hemp warp attached to it, and it cost them some time to heave most of it over, after which they proceeded to get the mainsail on to her. It was covered with a coat, and Wyllard cut himself as he slashed through the tiers in savage impatience. Then he and the Siwash toiled at the halliards desperately, for the task of raising the heavy gaff was almost beyond their powers.

There was no grease on the mast-hoops; the blocks evidently had not been used for months. Several times they desisted a moment or two, gasping, breathless, and utterly exhausted. Still, foot by foot they got the black canvas up, and then, leaving the peak hanging, ran forward to the boom-foresail, which was smaller and lighter. They set that, cast two jibs and the staysail loose, and let them lie. Wyllard sat down feeling that the thing they had done would, if attempted in cold blood, have appeared almost impossible. It was done, however, and now he must wait until the boat appeared. There was no sign of her, and as he gazed up the inlet, seeing only the glimmer of the water and the sliding mist, the suspense became almost intolerable. Minute after minute slipped by, and still nothing loomed out of the haze. The canvas rustled and banged above him, there was a growing splashing beneath the bows, and the schooner strained more heavily at her cable. Everything was ready, only his comrades did not appear. He clenched his hands and set his lips as he waited. He wondered at the Siwash, who sat upon the rail, a dim, shapeless figure, impassively still.

At last his heart leaped, for a faint splash of oars came out of the darkness. Both men ran forward to the windlass. The sharp clanking it made drowned the splash of oars, but in another minute or two there was a crash as the boat drove alongside, and Charly scrambled up with a rope while Lewson hurled sundry bags and cases after him. Then he climbed on deck in turn, and Charly began a breathless explanation.

"It's all we could get. There's nobody on our trail," he said.

The last fact was most important, and Wyllard cut him short. "Get the jibs and staysail on to her," he commanded.

The new arrivals worked rapidly while the cable clanked and rattled as the schooner drove astern, but at the first heave the rotten staysail tore off the hanks, and one jib burst as they ran it up its stay. For an anxious moment or two the cable jammed, and the anchor brought the schooner up. All four flung themselves upon the windlass levers, and after a furious effort the chain came up again and ran out faster, fathom by fathom, rattling horribly, until the end of it shot suddenly over the windlass. Then there was another check as the schooner brought up by the kedge swung suddenly across the stream.

Her banging canvas filled, she listed over, and it was evident to all of them that if the kedge started she would forthwith drive ashore. Tense with strain, its warp ripped out of the water, and she was swinging on it heading for the beach when Wyllard flung himself upon the wheel.

"Hang on to every inch or break it!" he roared. "Out main-boom; box your jib and staysail up to weather!"

In desperate haste they obeyed orders, amid a great clatter of blocks and thrashing of canvas, while Wyllard wrenched up his helm, and the schooner, straining on the warp, fell away with her bows down-stream. The sweat of effort dripped from Wyllard when he swung up an arm to Lewson, who was standing at the bollard to which the warp was made fast.

"Now!" he cried hoarsely, "let her go!"

The rope fell with a splash, the schooner lurched forward and drove away down the inlet with the stream running seaward under her, while Wyllard felt a trifle dazed from sheer revulsion of feeling. The rumble of the surf was growing louder; the deck slanted slightly beneath him. If they could keep her off the beach for the next few minutes there was freedom before them! He hazarded a glance astern, but could see no sign of a boat up the inlet. They had done a thing which even then appeared almost incredible.

The breeze came down fresher, the gurgle at the bows grew louder, and the deck began to heave with a slow and regular rise and fall. A long, shadowy point girt about with spectral surf slipped by, and they were out in open water. They ran the schooner out for an hour or two and then, though the peak of the mainsail burst to tatters as they hauled her on a wind, let her stretch away northward following the trend of coast.

"We'll stand on as she's lying until we find a creek or river mouth. We must have water," Wyllard said.

An hour later he called Charly to the wheel, and sitting down in the shelter of the rail, went to sleep, though this was about the last thing he had contemplated doing. It was gray dawn when he opened his eyes again, and aching all over and very cold, stood up to see that the schooner was tumbling over a spiteful sea with the hazy loom of land not far away from her. He glanced at the gear and canvas, and was almost appalled, while Charly, who was busy close by, saw his face and grinned.

"You don't want to look at her too much," he observed. "We took a swig on the peak-halliards a little while ago, and had to let up before we pulled the gaff off her. Boom-foresail's worse, and the jibs are dropping off her, while the water just pours in through her top-sides when she puts another lee plank down."

Wyllard made an expressive gesture, and leaned upon the rail. He realized then something of the nature of the task he had undertaken. They had no anchor, no fresh water, no fuel for cooking, and, so far as he was aware, very few provisions, while it seemed to him that the weathered, worn-out gear would not hold the masts in the vessel in any weight of breeze. Still, the thing must be attempted, and there was one want, at least, that could be supplied.

"Anyway," he said, "we'll beat her in. When we come abreast of the first creek you and Tom and the Siwash will go ashore."

It was afternoon when they sighted a little stream, and they took most of the canvas off the vessel before three of them pulled away in the boat, leaving Wyllard at the helm. It was blowing moderately fresh off shore, and it was with feverish impatience that he watched them toiling at the oars, two of them pulling while the third man sculled. They disappeared behind a point, and an anxious hour went by before the boat, which now showed a very scanty strip of side above the tumbling foam, crept out from the beach again. Having no breakers, they had brought the water off in bulk, sitting in it as they pulled, and it was fortunate that the boat lurched off shore easily before the little splashing seas. They lost some of the water before they hove it into the big rusty tank, and then they held a consultation when they had swung the boat in and the schooner was running off to the east again.

"We've about stores enough to last two weeks—that is, if you don't expect too much," Lewson pointed out. "There's an American stove in the deck-house, and while we can't find anything meant to burn in it there's an ax down forward, and we could cut out cabin floorings, or a beam or two, without taking too much stiffening out of her."

Wyllard, who had inspected the stores, knew that a fortnight was the very longest that could be counted on, though they ate no more than would keep a modicum of strength in them. From their kind and quality he surmised that the provisions had been intended for the officials in charge of the settlement.