They turned about, and headed in as straight a line as they could for Camp No. 3. They knew the general direction, and had some landmarks to go by.
The storm grew more and more fierce. The snow was almost as impenetrable as a fog, and there was a cold, biting wind. It stung the faces of the boys and made walking difficult. It was constantly growing darker.
“I say!” called Bert, after a bit. He stopped floundering about in a drift, and went on: “I say, does anyone know where we are?”
“On the road to Ramsen,” suggested Tom.
“I don’t believe we are,” Bert resumed. “I think we’re off the trail—lost!”
“Lost!” echoed George.
“Yes, lost, and in a blinding snowstorm,” went on Bert.