“We may as well camp here for tonight,” he said. “We don’t want to tire ourselves out when it isn’t necessary.”
Some snow was scraped up, and a hut constructed, and they went inside and had supper. It was a cold meal, but they were hungry, and enjoyed every mouthful. Then they fixed the snow hut a little better, and lay down to sleep.
They had been resting for about three hours, when Chet awoke with a start. A loud barking had awakened him.
“Dogs!” he murmured. “Must be one of the Esquimaux has come for us.”
The barking had also awakened the others, and getting up, the three crawled out of the snow hut.
“They are not dogs, they are foxes!” cried Barwell Dawson.
“Yes, and look at the number!” ejaculated Andy. “Must be fifty at least!”
“Fifty?” repeated Chet. “All of a hundred, or else I don’t know how to count!”
Chet was right—there were all of a hundred foxes outside, sitting in a bunch, with their heads thrown back barking lustily. They had followed the blood-stained trail of the polar bear, and wanted to get at the game.
“This is very unpleasant,” said the explorer, gravely. “I didn’t think we’d meet foxes so far north. They can’t get much to eat up here, and they must be very hungry.”