Photograph by U.S.G.S.
Where an Eternal Gale Rages.
On the topmost crests of the Alaskan Mountains. Working out fine calculations in an icy storm.
"Not hurt, I suppose?" queried Rivers as Roger scrambled to his feet.
"Not a bit," said Roger breathlessly, "but it seems like a week and a half since I got my wind."
"But why did you let go?"
"I don't know, Mr. Rivers; it felt as though some one was going to hit me in the face, and I just threw up my hands to defend myself."
"A man's got to be a pretty good prize-fighter who will go in the ring with an Alaskan blizzard," said the geologist, amusedly, "and the worst of it for you is that all your wounds are in the back. I should think you would have a few bruises in the morning, for you went down like a Jack-in-the-Box goes up."
The snow was falling steadily and heavily as the two walked back to the tent, and Roger remarked: