When they had climbed to a height nearly a hundred feet above the tundra they paused to reconnoiter. Approximating their position on Corporal Thalman’s map, they judged themselves to be in a big bend in the formation of the glacier. Far ahead, over the various hills and ridges, they could see where the vast mass of ice broadened and began its slide to the sea.
“You know what I think,” Dick broke a long silence, “those igloos are right under the walls of the glacier where it flows down to the sea.”
“I wouldn’t wonder but what you’re right,” Sandy replied dubiously, “but why not go on pretty slow so we can examine all the territory between us and where the glacier turns?”
“Better yet,” Dick sanctioned. “We can’t be too thorough. For all we know, every mistake we make in reading this map may be just like pounding another nail in Corporal Thalman’s coffin.”
“Ugh!” Sandy shivered at the thought, as they started out again.
With an interval of some hundred yards between them, the boys proceeded, Toma in the center driving the dog team. Almost any of the sheltered spots in the vicinity of the glacier might hide half a dozen igloos, and they were not going to pass up any likely places if they could help it.
The boys were growing weary, indeed, when Sandy, considerably in the lead, stopped dead still upon a mound of ice, and let out a cheer like an Indian war whoop.
“There they are! There they are!” his shout was faintly borne to the ears of Dick and Toma.
The two forced their tired legs into a staggering run, which soon brought them up with Sandy.
Below them, snug on the southern slope of a pyramid of glacial drift, were the abandoned igloos.