“There’s a track of human footprints in the snow on the ice that run in toward the coast yonder.”
“Made by Walter Grey?”
“The marks are small, evidently those of a boy’s feet.”
“Frank, I think we will find him now.”
“I hope so, professor. Anyway, we’ll follow the tracks.”
He kept the flying machine within a few yards of the ice, and sent her slowly along inland toward some steep cliffs.
The enormous precipices towered up a thousand feet in the air, and formed the base of a tremendous mountain, which stood on the verge of the sea.
Along went the Ranger, and she presently drew close to the base of the cliffs.
Here a big beach was seen.
It looked as if it were the bed of a great mountain torrent.