Varley said “Yes,” because he did not know what else to say. He was about to add that it was raining a lot harder, when his comrade gave a shout, and, darting across the little open space in which they chanced to be, dropped on his knees beside an object just protruding from the remains of a snow bank. With frantic haste the Shark tore away the heavy snow, revealing a low stone post, bearing a cryptical, chiseled inscription, of which Varley could make nothing. But the Shark was raising a shout of jubilation.
“Bully for us! Bully for the map! It’s all right! We’re all right! Say, ain’t this cracking good sport, Varley?”
Paul tried to feign friendly enthusiasm, but he was too damp to be very successful.
“It—it’s wonderful. Why—why—why, you didn’t know anything about this place except what that map told you, and you came straight to—to where you wanted to come! I—I never heard anything like it!”
The Shark patted the stone with a demonstrative affection Varley hadn’t dreamed he was capable of displaying.
“Bully old rock! Sure you’d be here, where you belong! Oh, but I say! This is just the greatest sport outdoors!”
“But I don’t see—the marker wasn’t shown on the map—it was put in long after the map was made—I don’t understand——”
The Shark interrupted Varley’s broken speech.
“Of course! But naturally it would be put about here by the government men. If you’d taken a good look at the map, you’d have seen why. You’d get the line. Then Mr. Grant as good as pointed out the spot. After that it was just a case of getting the bearings in your head and keeping them there—easy as falling off a log, wasn’t it?”
“It seems to have been easy for you,” Paul confessed. “But—but now that this is done, what—er—er—what do you want to do next?”