“I'm a slob,” came the wail down the crevasse.
“Cheer up, I've got it,” Smoke answered.
“Say! Wait! I've a lot of string in my pocket. I'll drop it down to you, and you send the knife up.”
Smoke made no reply. He was battling with a sudden rush of thought.
“Hey! You! Here comes the string. Tell me when you've got it.”
A small pocket-knife, weighted on the end of the string, slid down the ice. Smoke got it, opened the larger blade by a quick effort of his teeth and one hand, and made sure that the blade was sharp. Then he tied the sheath-knife to the end of the string.
“Haul away!” he called.
With strained eyes he saw the upward progress of the knife. But he saw more—a little man, afraid and indomitable, who shivered and chattered, whose head swam with giddiness, and who mastered his qualms and distresses and played a hero's part. Not since his meeting with Shorty had Smoke so quickly liked a man. Here was a proper meat-eater, eager with friendliness, generous to destruction, with a grit that shaking fear could not shake. Then, too, he considered the situation cold-bloodedly. There was no chance for two. Steadily, they were sliding into the heart of the glacier, and it was his greater weight that was dragging the little man down. The little man could stick like a fly. Alone, he could save himself.
“Bully for us!” came the voice from above, down and across the bulge of ice. “Now we'll get out of here in two shakes.”
The awful struggle for good cheer and hope in Carson's voice decided Smoke.