“And some hell of a place to get through,” Drake broke in. “It cost us our ponies and all my ammunition.”
“Richard Drake,” I said. “Son of old Alvin—you knew him, Mart.”
“Knew him well,” cried Ventnor, seizing Dick's hand. “Wanted me to go to Kamchatka to get some confounded sort of stuff for one of his devilish experiments. Is he well?”
“He's dead,” replied Dick soberly.
“Oh!” said Ventnor. “Oh—I'm sorry. He was a great man.”
Briefly I acquainted him with my wanderings, my encounter with Drake.
“That place out there—” he considered us thoughtfully. “Damned if I know what it is. Thought maybe it's gas—of a sort. If it hadn't been for it we'd have been out of this hole two days ago. I'm pretty sure it must be gas. And it must be much less than it was this morning, for then we made an attempt to get through again—and couldn't.”
I was hardly listening. Ventnor had certainly advanced a theory of our unusual symptoms that had not occurred to me. That hollow might indeed be a pocket into which a gas flowed; just as in the mines the deadly coal damp collects in pits, flows like a stream along the passages. It might be that—some odorless, colorless gas of unknown qualities; and yet—
“Did you try respirators?” asked Dick.
“Surely,” said Ventnor. “First off the go. But they weren't of any use. The gas, if it is gas, seems to operate as well through the skin as through the nose and mouth. We just couldn't make it—and that's all there is to it. But if you made it—could we try it now, do you think?” he asked eagerly.