At that he sat down on his sleeping-bag, and, with arms outstretched, like Jack London’s man of the wild, he slept the uneasy sleep of one who hunts and is hunted.
Night came at last and, with it, wakefulness and action. Cutting a hole through the snow-wall, which under the drive of the storm had grown to a surprising thickness, he crept out and slid down the hard bank, leaving no tracks behind.
The storm had abated; the moon and stars were out. As he dodged into the store sheds, he fancied that he saw a shadow flit from sight at the other end.
Working rapidly, he unearthed four fresh batteries. They were heavy affairs. A sled improvised from a plank and a bit of wire would aid him in bringing them up the hill. He had just arranged this contrivance and was about to turn toward the door, when a sudden darkening of the patch of moonlight admitted by the open door caused him to leap behind the massive shape of a smelter. He peered around the edge of it, his breath coming rapidly.
Through his mind sped the question: “Bolsheviki, natives, or yellow men?”
Upon freeing itself from the frozen claybank, the sausage balloon, with Dave Tower, Jarvis and the unconscious stranger on board, rose rapidly.
In their wild consternation, Dave and Jarvis did not realize this until the intense cold of the upper air began to creep through the heavily-padded walls of the cabin.
At this, Jarvis dropped on his stomach and stared down through the plate-glass on the floor.
“Shiver my bones!” he ejaculated, “we’re a mile ’igh and goin’ ’igher!”