“Nick says it’s a petrified tree.—Yes, only a few of ’em left.—No. Tell Biff to hold the fort.—Yes, we must camp, now. Good-by!” He turned to me again. “Nick,” he said, “that was a good petrified lie of yours, and it worked in bully. No use to worry the little girl,” he added, “she’ll think about us enough, anyway.”
We prepared for the night. There was still a feeble sun in the west, and we made haste to get into comfortable quarters before it left us. I had learned something of navigation on the vessel, and securing an angle I calculated that we had made somewhat more than one hundred and sixty miles during the five hours of aerial travel. We were convinced now that the snow surface sloped to the southward. Our horizon showed this when we ascended to the top of the highest drifts, and the temperature also indicated our approach to a warmer zone. That the frozen crust was getting thinner we had no doubt, but the end of it seemed yet far distant, and the temperature about us was by no means of a sort to suggest a summer wardrobe.
The mechanical skill of Chauncey Gale now became manifest. Inverting our boat once more, there appeared folded legs which when pulled down formed short uprights. Also, there was a canvas that dropped around these, and made a continuous wall, with a flap door in front. On the snow floor inside we spread our furs, and at the opening there was presently a little electric stove going, on which Mr. Sturritt was busily melting snow and preparing tea. This with some sandwiches and a generous round of lozenges formed our evening meal. We ate it, reclining on our furs, and were really quite cozy and comfortable. I had a presentiment that I could not adopt Mr. Sturritt’s condensed food as a continuous diet. It would have been treason, however, to say so at this stage. Gale was very delicate in the matter.
“What’s a picnic without peanuts!” he said, as he lit a cigar, and lay back in the darkness. “And, by the way, Bill, how many of those sandwiches have we got?”
“Why, I think plenty for—er—to-morrow—that is—at the present rate of consumption.”
“Um—well, maybe we’d better begin tapering to-morrow then. One a meal, instead of two. We don’t want to break in on tablets too suddenly, you know.”
We crept into our sleeping bags—Gale and I together. We heard the clatter of fine drifting snow on our roof and canvas wall. We were not cold, and drowsiness presently came stealing over me—the reaction after all the excitement of the day.
Then out of the darkness came the face of Edith Gale. We were far apart for the first time in a year. Long, desolate, frozen miles lay between us. To-morrow night the distance would be still greater. She did not know our plight—of that I was glad. Yet, in the end, it might be no worse than hers. The Billowcrest might never escape from her ice-locked harbor. And it was I who had brought all of this to pass. We were both isolated in this great frozen world, and all through a mad dream of my boyhood. I had an inclination to toss on my pillow, but the limits of the sleeping-bag did not permit this luxury. From out of the darkness at the other end of the boat came the voice of Ferratoni.
“It will avail nothing to disturb yourself,” he said gently, “and a good-night word would be comforting.”
I had forgotten the telephone. I reached out an arm for it now, and touched the call button. Almost immediately it answered, and then came Edith’s voice.