"What do you take me for?" demanded Guy, when, a minute later, Leslie broached the matter to him. "Where you go I jolly well go, too; so that settles the matter. It's only a matter of forty-four miles, isn't it? The Bird of Freedom will do that on her head."
"I would vastly prefer her to do it on her runners," laughingly rejoined Leslie. "Anyhow, we're to make a start as soon as possible. Do you know that we are a couple of days out? It's Thursday instead of Tuesday."
"It might be Monday for all I know," said Guy. "This midnight sun business has muddled me up entirely—not that I am complaining. I only hope we won't have to put in a six months' night; that must be horrible."
Within three hours of the Bird of Freedom's arrival at Desolation Inlet, she set out again for her dash to Observation Camp. This time Ranworth took only one seaman.
For one reason, there was to be no more sea work; the sleigh's course—except for the ascent of the inlet—lay across the frozen plains, snow-clad mountains and treacherous crevasses. For another, the carrying capacity of the Bird of Freedom was somewhat limited. It was just possible she could accommodate all the survivors of Claude Ranworth's party. Failing that, two trips would have to be made.
The new member of the relief expedition sleigh party was an Irishman—Mike O'Donovan by name. He was a short, thick-set man, with a little turned-up nose, a long upper lip and a profusion of shock hair and bushy side whiskers. He was a thoroughly trustworthy fellow, although inclined to be impetuous. The ship's company of the Polarity regretted his departure, from the fact that he was the life of the fo'c'sle.
For three miles the Bird of Freedom threaded her way up the tortuous and ever-narrowing creek, until further progress by water was barred by the abrupt termination of the water-way.
Ahead lay a forbidding-looking defile, enclosed on both sides by tall cliffs. Through the valley thus formed, a glacier wended its way—a gigantic river of ice mingled with masses of rock brought down by its resistless march from the lofty interior of Nova Cania.
The cliffs were curious to behold. For eighty or a hundred feet above the level of the glacier they were perfectly smooth, having been polished by the flow of the ice river during countless centuries. No doubt the size of the glacier was steadily diminishing. Above the ice-worn portion of the cliffs the granite rocks were rugged and fantastically shaped.
Cautiously the sleigh approached the end of the glacier. Here the ice slid gently towards the waters of the inlet. The surmounting of the glacier would be an easy matter provided the ice would bear, for the surface, mottled by pieces of rock and small stones, afforded a good grip to her decapod wheels.