Prospects were not bright. “No gas,” he told himself. “It’s a march down the river in the dark for me.
“Oh, well. Munch a chocolate bar and some crackers. Hate to leave the old plane. Whew! How good the old feather robe would feel!” He stretched his weary muscles.
“Wolves down the river at night. But I’d fix ’em!” He patted his bow.
A brief inspection of his plane told him that all was well. “A fortunate escape. And now, eats.”
He took his time about his meal. The moon would be higher later in the night. Plenty of time anyway. No one would start back with him to bring a dog sled load of gasoline to his plane before dawn.
He was just pushing away the warm robe he had drawn over his knees when a curious sound reached his ears, a clank-clank like the moving of gears.
“How strange!” he exclaimed. “Up here close to the Arctic Circle. What a night! Will wonders never cease?”
A low dark bulk came gliding over the ice. The clank-clank grew louder.
“It’s a tractor!” he told himself, only half believing. “But here! Hundreds of miles beyond the end of steel! Who would believe it?” He was forced to believe, for, before he could realize it, the thing was upon him.
Suddenly the clatter and clank ceased. “Hello there!” came in a cheery voice. “What you camping here for? Resolution is just around the corner.