“Well, boys, tomorrow we leave the schooner.”
It was Tom Farnum who made the announcement over dinner which was eaten on deck. The boat was anchored offshore, far up the Hare Indian River, one of the great tributaries of the MacKenzie. How long it was since they had left Nome none could tell, for in that land of perpetual daylight it was hard to keep track of time.
“Tomorrow,” said big Bob, “when is tomorrow?”
He looked at the sun which was still high, despite the lateness of the hour, and would make only an ineffectual attempt to dip below the horizon at midnight, before resuming its upward climb.
Everybody laughed.
“What a topsy turvy land,” said Jack. “Well, I, for one, will be glad to go ashore and stretch my legs. Wonderful as the trip has been so far, I’m eager to get started.”
Little of moment had occurred to interrupt the monotony of the trip up the coast and along the northern edge of Alaska and the North American continent to the mouth of the MacKenzie. Of course, occasional ice floes had been encountered and the little schooner had been compelled to make wide detours. But that was to be expected in that Far Northern latitude.
In fact, when they had arrived at the mouth of the MacKenzie, the ice was only recently dissipated from the great river. There, at a dock where a little sidewheel steamer that plied on the MacKenzie in Summer was tied up for repairs, they had replenished their stock of gasoline and then continued the ascent, passing between willowed banks, where huddled occasional trading posts surrounded by native villages, with the snow-capped mountain peaks always in the distance.
Then they had reached the mouth of the Hare Indian River and soon had put beyond them all appearance of the presence of man.