By this time the going was very heavy and it is doubtful if they were making much over a mile an hour. Snow-shoeing on well packed snow through the surface of which the shoe barely breaks is one thing and an expert can travel at a rapid pace. But when the snow is light and newly fallen and the shoes sink deep and at every step the wearer has to lift, not only the shoe but the snow which falls upon it, the conditions are vastly different and progress is very slow. The feet feel as though loaded with lead and each step advances the traveler but a few inches.
Darkness was coming rapidly as Jack, who at the moment was in the lead, stopped and turned around.
“How far do you think we’ve come?” he asked.
“Pretty hard to say,” Bob replied, as he glanced at his watch. “It was four o’clock when we struck the lake and it’s a quarter past five now. I’d say not over two miles or two miles and a half at the most. We’ve been creeping for the last half hour.”
“And I’m mighty tired already,” Jack said, as he turned his back to the wind. “I sure wish we’d accepted Kernertok’s invitation and waited till morning.”
“Yes, it would have been better,” Bob agreed, “but we must be pretty near half way down so I suppose we might as well keep on as turn back.”
“Who said anything about turning back?” Jack laughed. “I’m worth a dozen dead men, so come on.”
“On it is,” Bob shouted, “but it’s my turn to break trail,” and before Jack could object he had pushed ahead of him. “It seems as though the snow keeps coming down faster and faster all the time,” he declared as he started off.
“Yes, and wouldn’t I like to get hold of that fellow that wrote the poem about the beautiful snow,” Jack growled, as he fell in close behind.
For another hour they struggled on without a word being spoken. They both knew that they needed to husband all their strength, and talking so as to be heard above a Maine blizzard, takes breath. It was now so dark that although he was scarcely six feet behind, it was all Jack could do to see the form of his brother.