And again they heard the laugh—ahead of them yet. On and on they crept, a dew of perspiration standing out on their foreheads, and freezing there in tiny drops. But not a sign of any person or thing did they actually see. Only the frequent peals of wild laughter urged them fearfully on, like a will-o’-the-wisp in some frozen swamp.
The boulder strewn snow presently gave way to treacherous gashes in the ground made by the erosion of some age-old glacier. Clambering and sliding in and out of these precipitous gullies, they kept on after the elusive laughter.
Long since they had given up following the snowshoe tracks. The laughter of a man—even a mad man was much more tangible than footprints. But had it not been for the grim, fearless policeman, Dick and Toma would have turned back.
An end to their reckless advance came in a very unexpected manner. Clambering out of a steep gully, they found themselves at the edge of a trackless expanse of soft white snow, apparently as level as a floor and just as solid footing. The laughter had not been repeated for some time before they negotiated the last glacier gash, and they were beginning to wonder if their ghostly guide had deserted them.
It was Toma who saw it first—the form of a human being sitting erect against a snow bank across the white level of snow.
“Look. Somebody there!” Toma whispered.
“It—it must be a dead man,” faltered Dick.
“Not on your life,” gritted Corporal McCarthy. “See him move. That fellow’s tied and that fellow is Sandy McClaren!”
Dick’s eyes suddenly testified as to the accuracy of the policeman’s statement. “Sandy!” he almost shrieked, starting to run toward him.
But the iron hand of Corporal McCarthy dragged him back as if he had been merely a pillowful of feathers.