"What's the matter?"
"We're lost," said John.
"No, you're not; you're right here on Crater Lake, just over the summit of the Chilkoot."
"Thank God!" said Hugh.
"We're the police; come inside." They staggered into a tent warmed by a tin stove, on which was a pot of coffee. The man quickly produced cups, and gave them to drink.
John Berwick just fell on a pile of wood, stacked near the stove, and fell asleep. Now that the great struggle against the elements, which force of personality rather than strength of limbs had carried him through, was over, he collapsed.
When the policeman returned with bread and meat for them, he found Hugh removing his friend's shoes, and brushing the snow from his legs.
"Let him sleep," said Hugh.
In far-away London at that very hour—in England high noon—Alice Peel was walking down Regent Street. Her spirits were restless. The bustling traffic, the interest of the shops, the passing of the people, could not keep her thought from a far wanderer. She was weary of this ordered civilization; and remembering John in his adventures heard the call of the wilds.