The start was made early the next day, Andy and Chet taking turns at driving the six dogs, the pick of what were left of the pack. The course was along the lead westward, and after a mile had been covered, they reached a spot where some new ice covered the water.
“Do you think it will hold us?” asked Andy.
“I’ll test it and see,” was Mr. Dawson’s reply.
After an examination the explorer came to the conclusion that they might risk the new ice.
“But we must go over it quickly,” he cautioned. “Don’t let the dogs stop.”
They walked a distance back, and set the sledge in motion. Then out on the ice they spun, Chet cracking his long whip in true Esquimau fashion. The new ice cracked and groaned under their weight, and when they were in the middle of the lead it began to buckle.
“Spread out—don’t keep together!” yelled Barwell Dawson. “Chet, whip up the dogs and let ’em go it alone!”
The boy understood, and gave the canines the lash. Away they sped at breakneck speed. Then Chet leaped to one side, and he and the others continued on their way a distance of fifty or more feet from each other.
It was a great risk they had assumed, and each instant they thought the ice would break and let them down in the water. A rescue under such conditions,—with the thermometer standing at fifty-three degrees below zero,—would have been out of the question.
“The ice is going down!” screamed Andy, just as he was within a rod of the north shore. “Hurry up!”