Once again her thoughts broke off. The plane had bumped. There was something strange about that bump, too solid or something. Bump-bump-bump, each bump was stranger than the last.
But now she sighed with relief, for the plane was coming to a standstill. Slow—slow, slower, stop.
She was preparing to open the door, when with a little cry of dismay she fell back among the blankets. A terrible thing was happening, the plane was gliding backward!
“What—what is it?” cried Mr. Il-ay-ok.
“We—we’re on a sloping ledge. We’re gliding down—down! We—” Mary’s voice ended in a gasp. Her heart stood still, then went racing on. The plane was gliding faster, faster, ever faster, and back of them, not thirty seconds’ glide, was a deep, dark abyss! They had landed half way up the sloping mountainside.
“Dear God—”
Her prayer was answered before it was said. The motor thundered. Their backward gliding slowed. Slow, slower, stop. Then the reverse, the motor picked up speed, and they glided forward faster, faster, faster. Then, with a startling lurch the plane swung to the right. Next instant they were once more floating on God’s good free air.
Then, perhaps because they had seen perils enough, the sun quite suddenly broke from behind the clouds, the snowfall ceased, and they found themselves sailing high over a long, winding valley.
Two hours later, having sailed on through a clear sky for many miles, and feeling the need for rest and food, they circled low over the frozen surface of a broad stream.
“Good!” said the Eskimo. “Now we eat.”