Already his men were growing superstitious in this silent, frozen land. He had heard them saying openly that they would not work in the mine where Langlois died. Ah, well, there were six other mines, some of them probably as rich. They could be worked. But was this peril to follow them into these? Was his whole expedition to be thwarted in the carrying out of its high purposes? Were the needy in great barren Russia to continue to freeze and starve? He hoped not.
As he rose to go, he saw a small dark object scurry over the snow. At first he thought it a raven. But at last, with a little circle, it appeared to flop over and to lie still, a dark spot on the snow.
Johnny approached it cautiously. As he came close, his lips parted in an exclamation:
“A phonographic record!”
He looked quickly up the hill, then to the right and left. Not a person was in sight.
“Apparently from the sky,” he murmured.
But at that instant he caught himself. They had a phonograph in their outfit. This was doubtless one of their records. But how did it come out here?
As he picked it up and examined it closely, he knew at once that it was not one of their own, for it was a different size and had neither number nor label on it.
“Ho, well,” he sighed, “probably thrown away by some native. Take it down and try it out anyway. Might be a good one.”