“Stamp your feet down if you are disposed to slip, my lad. I do not want to do this, but if the slope grows steeper we must fix bayonets and use them to steady us.”
“Take the edge off on ’em, sir.”
“Yes; but we must get across the ridge. Forward.”
They toiled on, the task growing heavier as they progressed, for the gradient became steeper, and they halted from time to time for a rest, the plan of using the bayonets being kept for a last resource. But there were compensations to make up for the severity of the toil, one of which was expressed by the travellers at one of the halts.
“Makes one feel jolly comf’table and warm, sir.”
“Yes; and takes away all doubt of our going in the right direction, for we must be right.”
“I didn’t think we was at first, sir. ’Tain’t so dark neither.”
“No: we are getting higher, and the snow and ice are all round us. Now then, forward!”
Crunch, squeak, crunch went the snow as they tramped steadily, with the surface curving slowly upward, till all at once there was a slip, a thud, and a scramble, Gedge was down, and he began to glide, but checked himself with the butt of his rifle.
“I’m all right, sir; but I was on the go,” he said, panting.