The two travellers looked back, laughing and nodding, as jolly as you please. The Boy stooped, made a snow-ball, and fired it at Kaviak. The child ducked, chuckling, and returned as good as he got. His loosely packed ball broke in a splash on the back of the Boy's parki, and Kaviak was loudly cheered.
Still, as they went forward, they looked back. The Big Chimney wore an air wondrous friendly, and the wide, white world looked coldly at them, with small pretence of welcome or reward.
"I don't believe I ever really knew how awful jolly the Big Chimney was—till this minute."
The Colonel smiled. "Hardly like myself, to think whatever else I see, I'll never see that again."
"Better not boast."
The Colonel went on in front, breaking trail in the newfallen snow, the Boy pulling the sled behind him as lightly as if its double burden were a feather.
"They look as if they thought it'd be a picnic," says Mac, grimly.
"I wonder be the Siven Howly Pipers! will we iver see ayther of 'em again."
"If they only stay a couple o' nights at Anvik," said Potts, with gloomy foreboding, "they could get back here inside a week."
"No," answered Mac, following the two figures with serious eyes, "they may be dead inside a week, but they won't be back here."