Rising to their feet, with their heads above the surface, they found the snow falling so fast that they could not see fifty feet in any direction.
"How can Docak keep his bearings?" asked Rob, in a low voice, of the others, when the native, walking a few feet, paused and looked earnestly about him.
"It doesn't seem to me that it is any harder for him to do so than it was yesterday when there was no snow falling."
"There is a big difference. We couldn't have done any better in the one case than the other, but he could see the sky. He knew where the sun was, though we did not; and there must have been something in the looks of the landscape to help, but there is none of that now."
"I can give you the right answer to Fred's question," said Jack, in the same guarded undertone.
"What is it?"
"When you ask whether Docak can keep the p'ints of the compass in his mind, and make sure that he is heading straight for home, the real answer is—he can't."
There could be no denying that the sailor spoke the truth. The native, like the Indians further south, may have possessed a subtle skill in the respect named beyond the comprehension of his more civilized neighbors, but, in all cases, there is a limit to such ability. Where there is nothing to afford guide or clue no living man can walk in a straight line—hour after hour, or hold his way undeviatingly toward a fixed point of the compass.
But, admitting this unquestioned truth, nothing was more self-evident than that it was sure death to stay where they were; the one and only thing left to them was to push on while the opportunity was theirs.
The Esquimau was a man of deeds rather than words. He showed no disposition to discuss the situation, and, beyond a few insignificant words, said nothing to his companions, who were as eager to be on the move as he. He stood a minute or two in study, and then, uttering the words: