It was quite evident that, like the unfortunate Russians, Claude Ranworth's party had had to exist on raw seals' flesh; yet the fact that they had contrived to find these amphibians forty or fifty miles from the sea was somewhat perplexing.
The third hut had a double curtain. The approach tunnel, too, was larger. The inner curtain, unlike those in the other huts, was secured.
As Ranworth fumbled to find the lashings, he heard a feeble voice exclaim:
"There's a bear, Tom; get your rifle, sharp."
"Hold on!" shouted Ranworth.
The curtain was torn aside. A cloud of oil-smelling smoke wafted out, causing Ranworth to cough and his eyes to fill with water. Literally gasping for breath, and unable to see, he waited, hunched upon his hands and knees.
"Hullo, Jack. You've come at last!" exclaimed a drowsy voice.
It was Claude Ranworth's greeting to his brother.
"Yes, old man, we're here," replied John Ranworth, and emerging from the tunnel he drew himself erect within the hut, while Leslie and Guy followed.
The sole illumination was derived from a piece of lighted cotton rag floating in a shallow bowl of oil and tallow. It revealed seven men, lying close together for mutual warmth and muffled in furs. Three of them were fast asleep, the others seemed more or less torpid.