“What a weird style of compliment,” answered Alma, with a little laugh. “But any sort of compliment coming from Mr Fordham should be duly treasured.”
“Well, there’s a far weirder fact underlying it. Look here! If you knew there were half a dozen even indifferent shots posted behind yonder séracs practising at you with rifles, I believe you’d think your run of life was held on exceedingly frail and uncertain tenure. Well, left to yourselves here, the same tenure is a good deal more uncertain than it would be under the other contingency—you two poor greenhorns.”
“Oh, come; I say, Fordham?” exclaimed Philip, deprecatorily. But Alma broke into a ringing laugh.
“You think it a laughing matter, do you?” went on Fordham. “Now you wouldn’t think that a dozen steps further of the line you’re following would perform your own funerals? You’d never be seen again.”
“Now you’re cramming us, old chap,” said Philip, airily, surveying the white unbroken surface in front.
“Am I? Very well. Now, look.”
He counted exactly ten paces forward, then halted, advanced half a pace, and holding his ice-axe by the head, drove the point into the surface. In it went without resistance, as far as he allowed it to, which was almost to the head. Then working it round he made a hole about half a yard in diameter.
“Come, now, and look.” He went on cautiously knocking away more of the snow-crust.
They obeyed, and in a moment were peering through the hole into black depths. The sheeny surface of the opposite ice-wall glared at them through the aperture as with the disappointed glare of the eye of some evil beast baulked of its prey.
“By Jove!” cried Philip, aghast. “You never spoke a truer word, Fordham. There would have been an end of us, sure enough. But I say, old chap, how on earth did you know there was a crevasse there—a dev—, hum—I mean an awful one it is, too? There’s no sign or difference of colour in the surface.”