In the end, Dick purchased two dog teams and sledges in place of one. They left the village just as the sun slipped down below the rim of the valley and abrupt Arctic night drew on. Across the lonely face of the hills, they speeded on their way. The Northern Lights hissed and cracked above their heads. About them beat the trembling pulse of a vast and impenetrable silence.
It was after midnight when they reached their destination, shouting and happy, storming down upon the row of chilly white tents. Their furious halloos soon brought Sandy and Dr. Brady shivering outside.
“That you, Dick?” called out Sandy’s anxious voice. “Who’s with you?”
“Friends,” came the jubilant answer. “Stir up the fires, Sandy, we’re almost famished. No!—Come over here, you and Dr. Brady. I have a surprise for you.”
“What’s that?”
Sandy and the physician looked down at the sleeping form, then across at Dick and Toma in perplexity.
“Guess.”
“The Indian with the boots. You’ve half-killed him.”
“Wrong. Guess again.”
“One of our former dog drivers—probably Fontaine,” said Dr. Brady.