John Drinkard caught the loop lowered to him. Its texture was strange to his mountaineer's hands. It was down-soft, warm to the touch, and he felt its strength instinctively. He climbed it easily, hand over hand. The stranger stood three strides back from the crevasse lip, negligently holding the rope with one heavy-gauntleted hand—yet he was slender, slight of build, and when Drinkard rose to his feet, he towered over his rescuer.
Big John thrust out his hand. "Well, thanks. Lucky for me somebody has sense enough to walk around ice cracks."
The man seemed to hesitate, then extended his own gloved hand.
"You must not mind the glove," he said. "It is for your protection. The hand has not yet cooled."
John Drinkard was glad of the dimness of the moonlight, for his jaw dropped. But the man turned promptly away.
"Come," he said, "I have made an easy way. The one with the swollen foot is concerned for you."