Tom pointed to a strip of beach which bordered a rather deeper indentation on the edge of the inlet.
"I guess that's the place for us to land," he said. "Looks like there is water there and a good beach."
Wearily—for now that the strain of their wild ride on the tide-rip was over, they felt exhausted—wearily they pulled on the oars, moving the heavy dory slowly over the placid waters of the inlet. The sea, its force broken by an outcropping reef across the mouth of the miniature bay, broke gently on the shore, and it was an easy matter to make a landing. The dory was pulled as far up the beach as they in their tired state could manage, and its painter made fast to a stunted willow tree.
The beach, bordered with trees and stunted shrubs, rose upward. They mounted it and found themselves on a yielding, marshy carpet of moss. It was the tundra of Alaska. It would have made hard walking to cross it, but while they were pondering the advisability of doing so, Tom made a discovery.
"Look! a path!" he exclaimed. "It runs right along here."
He pointed to a beaten path, plainly enough made by human beings, leading along the top of the "sea-wall" between the tundra marsh and the beach.
"There must be people here. Somebody must have made it."
"Evidently, and look over there, that's the answer."
Tom had followed the path slightly in advance of the others. Now he had come to a halt, pointing toward a singular structure at some little distance, toward which it was clear that the path led. The hut was shaped like a low beehive and appeared to be built of drift-wood and peat.