Jubilantly they strode ahead, bowing to imaginary cheering crowds.
"We've got it made, Hardrock. We got it made!"
Bradford's grin wavered. "Well ... we've got it made this far anyway, with two months and half to go. Let's hope there's duck on that pond!"
Suddenly sobered they went on; before them the semi-arid belt seemed to stretch interminably toward the barely visible green area. The horizon seemed to retreat as they advanced.
"Another night in this damned desert," Bradford groaned. "At least we may be able to get a fire going with this brush—and a real swallow of water apiece. I hope that stuff we saw out there wasn't a mirage," he added disconsolately.
"Not that—that was real honest-to-God water. Wish I'd brought my duck gun. These damn supply sergeants never do send out the right equipment."
Towards dusk they scooped out a shallow hole in the sand and roofed it with green branches.
"With our luck this stuff will probably turn out to be poison ivy," Canham predicted gloomily. "Join me in my thatched hut, oh beauteous one—and look out for sandburs."
They slept fitfully, shivering through the long night hours. Bradford announced that this was undoubtedly the North Pole and they had arrived at the beginning of the six months night. With the first of the thin, cheerless rays of the distant sun, they clambered out of their cramped sleeping place, some of yesterday's enthusiasm waning as they stumbled about, relaxing stiffened muscles.
Vaguely uneasy and depressed they started out; the very nearness of their goal somehow seemed to make their chances of reaching it doubly unsure.