The night was bright with moonlight when the Boy stood again on the top of the bluff.
"Humph!" says the Colonel, with agreeable anticipation; "you'll be glad to camp for a few days after this, I reckon."
"Reckon I won't."
In their colossal fatigue they slept the clock round; their watches run down, their sense of the very date blurred. Since the Colonel had made the last laconic entry in the journal—was it three days or two—or twenty?
In spite of a sensation as of many broken bones, the Boy put on the Colonel's snow-shoes, and went off looking along the foot of the cliff for his own. No luck, but he brought back some birch-bark and a handful of willow-withes, and set about making a rude substitute.
Before they had despatched breakfast the great red moon arose, so it was not morning, but evening. So much the better. The crust would be firmer. The moon was full; it was bright enough to travel, and travel they must.
"No!" said the Colonel, with a touch of his old pompous authority, "we'll wait awhile."
The Boy simply pointed to the flour-bag. There wasn't a good handful left.