Of what occurred during the next quarter of an hour, neither Leslie nor Guy knew. They were both in a semi-dazed condition, and barely aware that a calamity had happened. It was very dark in the upturned cabin, for the scuttles which were not crushed against the ice were covered in fallen snow.
Presently Guy put his hand to his forehead, and upon removing it, found it covered with warm and sticky moisture. His head was bleeding freely from a cut extending from his right eyebrow to his left temple.
"Leslie!" he exclaimed. "Are you there?"
"Hullo!"
In spite of his surroundings, Guy laughed.
"Sounds like a conversation on the telephone," he remarked. "But, I say, what a smash up!"
"Might have been worse," growled a deep voice which the lads recognised as Wilson's. "It's lucky there are some of us left alive. I thought I was the only bloke what wasn't knocked out."
"You ain't, then," chimed in another lusty voice—Johnson's this time. "Can't we get a light and see how things stand? Strikes me this ain't all shipshape and Bristol fashion."
Leslie thereupon remembered that in one of the racks was an electric torch. The rack was above his head, and out of arm's reach, for the other side of the cabin was the floor.
"Here you are, sir," announced Wilson. "I've been sitting on a hurricane lamp. The glass has gone to blazes, and most of the oil, but maybe you'll be able to get it to light."