“See!” Mary exclaimed, pointing off to the left, “there are three columns of smoke rising up from the edge of the forest. People living around here. Wonder what they are? White men, Eskimo, or Indians?”
“No Eskimo,” said Mr. Il-ay-ok, “Too far, this place.”
So they came down. Three times, like some lone wild duck searching a water hole, the plane circled low. The third time it dropped a little lower. Bump-bump-bump, glide-glide-glide on their broad skis, and—a perfect landing? Almost. But what was this? The ship tilted sharply to one side. Mary, whose hand was on the door, was thrown out to fall flat on the snow-encrusted ice. For ten long seconds it seemed the airplane would roll on over and crush her. But no, still tilted to a rakish angle, it came at last to rest.
What had happened? They were not long in finding the answer. Early in the winter the river had frozen over, perhaps two feet thick. This ice had cracked. Water had flowed through and flooded the ice. Once again it froze over, but not thick enough. One ski of the plane had broken through to settle down on the solid ice a foot below.
“Here we are, and here we stay.” Speed’s tone had a sad finality about it.
“But, Speed, can’t we pry it out?” Mary asked hopefully.
“Impossible,” the pilot shook his head. “Ten or twenty men might do it, but not you and I.”
“Then it shall be ten or twenty men!” Mary exclaimed. “Christmas bells must ring.”
“Wha—what do you mean?” the pilot stared at her.
“We saw smoke, didn’t we?” she turned to the Eskimo.