“You can’t get back any too quick for me,” said Chet, dryly.
“There is no use in disguising the fact that our provisions are very low,” continued Barwell Dawson, gravely. “We have very little left for the dogs.”
“What will you do with them?” asked Chet.
“One is a little lame. If the worst comes to the worst, we’ll kill him and feed him to the others.”
They left the igloo standing, and on the top placed a metallic box containing a brief record of their trip. Then they took down the flag and placed it on the sledge.
They started on the return at seven in the morning. The weather was not so cold as it had been, and going seemed to be better, so they covered the twenty-two miles to their old camp without much difficulty. Here they had to repair the sledge again, and also had to kill off the lame dog. This made a feast for the others, and gave them some food that was much needed.
“I could almost eat dog meat myself,” said Chet.
“It may come to that,” answered Andy. “I guess it is a heap better than nothing, when a chap is starving.”
They found the new ice on the lead much thicker than it had been, and so crossed with ease. But now came on a heavy fall of snow, and all traces of their former trail were wiped out.
“We’ll have to steer by eyesight and the compass,” announced Barwell Dawson.