Which is how it happened that when Peter stumbled and fell, and found himself unable to rise, the others had no knowledge of it.
As the big man went down, he essayed to rise quickly, but his right leg refused to move.
"Broken!" he said to himself, as one noting a trivial occurrence. "Queer, to break a leg, falling in a bed of soft snow!"
But that was exactly what he had done, and realizing it, he set up a yell that would have made a North American Indian envy its force and volume.
But for all the good it did, it might as well have been a whisper. The wind, though not violent, was against him, and carried the sound away from the plodding travelers. His friends could not hear it. Not looking back, as indeed, they had no thought of doing, they did not miss their fallen comrade and on they toiled, ignorant of the fact that they were three instead of four now.
And Peter,—big, strong Peter Crane,—brave, intrepid Peter Boots,—sat there in the furious snowstorm, unable to rise, but with brain and mind vividly alive to what had happened.
Quick of thought, always, he now traced with lightning rapidity, just what the future held for him—and such a short future, at that—unless——
His only hope lay in his lung power.
He yelled, screamed, whistled, hooted, and put all of his strength and nerve force in his desperate efforts to reach the ears of his comrades.
But it was impossible. The cruel wind drove his voice away from those it was meant to reach, the snowflakes filled his open mouth as he shouted; and as hope failed, strength failed and Peter faced his fate.