Blake did not answer, and soon afterwards Sergeant Lane came in with Walthew.
CHAPTER XXVIII
A MATTER OF DUTY
Sergeant Lane sat by the camp fire in a straggling bluff, a notebook in his hand, while Emile repacked a quantity of provisions, the weight of which they had been carefully estimating. The scattered trees were small and let the cold wind in, for the party had now reached the edge of the plain where the poplars began to grow. The Sergeant's brows were knitted, for the calculations he had made were not reassuring.
"The time we lost turning back to the Stony village has made a big hole in our grub," he said. "Guess we'll have to cut the menoo down and do a few more miles a day."
"Our party's used to that," Blake answered with a smile. "I suggest another plan. You have brought us a long way and Sweetwater's a bit off your line. Suppose you give us food enough to last us on half rations and let us push on."
"No, sir," said Lane decidedly; "we see this trip through together. For another thing, the dogs are playing out and after the way they've served us I want to save them. With your help at the traces we make better time."
Blake could not deny this. The snow had been in bad condition for the last week, and the men had relieved each other in hauling the sledge. The police camp equipment was heavy, but it could not be thrown away, because they preferred some degree of hunger to lying awake at nights, half frozen. Moreover, neither Blake nor his comrades desired to leave their new friends and once more face the rigours of the wilds alone.
"Then we'll have to make the best speed we can," he said.