[Illustration: OUT ACROSS THE LONESOME WASTE THEY JOURNEYED]
But the third voyager, who had with difficulty won his way up to the level of the street, presented the strangest appearance. There was something uncanny about him. As he gained the street, he waved back all proffered assistance, then paused, with his swaying body propped upon widespread legs, staring malignantly into the north. From their deep sockets his eyes glittered like live coals, while his blackened, swollen lips split in a grimace that bared his teeth. He raised his arms slowly and shook his clenched fists defiantly at the Polar skies, muttering unintelligible things, then staggered after his companions.
CHAPTER VIII
WHEREIN BOYD ADMITS HIS FAILURE
A week later Boyd and George were watching the lights of Port Townsend blink out in the gloom astern. A quick change of boats at Juneau had raised their spirits, enabling them to complete the second stage of their journey in less than the expected time, and the southward run, out from the breath of the Arctics into a balmier climate, had removed nearly the last trace of their suffering from the frost.
A sort of meditative silence which had fallen upon the two men was broken at last by George, who for some time had been showing signs of uneasiness.
"How long are we going to stay in Seattle?" he inquired.
"Only long enough," Boyd replied, "for me to arrange a connection with some bank. That will require a day, perhaps."
"I suppose a feller has got to dress pretty swell back there in
Chicago," George ventured.
"Some people do."