"One—seven—ten—three—five," the Eskimo boy had faithfully repeated after him, and rolled his eyes half in amusement and half in terror.
"Wheel one is for rise, seven for fans, ten to stop, three to lift the outer-hatch, five the inner-hatch," Dave had explained. "But you only need to remember one—seven—ten—three—five."
Somehow, Dave had come to believe that this hardy young Alaskan, reared as he had been, under perfect conditions of food, air, light and exercise, could, if the test ever came, survive his civilized companions.
Now, as he reeled and a great wave of dizzy sickness came over him, while he sank to the floor, Dave was glad he had taught Azazruk; for the boy, with a strange, strained look of terror in his eye, stood still at the wheel.
Dimly he felt, rather than saw, a dark shadow pass over them. As in a dream he whispered the magic formula:
"One—seven—ten—three—five."
Faintly he heard the grind of the wheels, felt the fan's breath on his cheek, then all was lost in unconsciousness.
* * * * *
After ten solid hours of sleep the airplane party awoke to find their dogs whining and pawing at the entrance to their shelter.
"Guess they're hungry," said Barney, rubbing his eyes sleepily. "Now if we could only locate a seal in some water-hole, it would help out our scanty supply of food."