tly he lunged into the drifts with one foot, or both; his
glazed mukluk soles slid about, causing him to bestride the invisible
hog-back, or again his legs crossed awkwardly, throwing him off his
balance. At times he wandered away from the path entirely and had to
search it out again. These exertions were very wearing and they were
dangerous, also, for joints are easily dislocated, muscles twisted, and
tendons strained.

Hour after hour the march continued, unrelieved by any change, unbroken
by any speck or spot of color. The nerves of their eyes, wearied by
constant near-sighted peering at the snow, began to jump so that vision
became untrustworthy. Both travelers appreciated the necessity of
clinging to the trail, for, once they lost it, they knew they might
wander about indefinitely until they chanced to regain it or found their
way to the shore, while always to seaward was the menace of open water,
of air-holes, or cracks which might gape beneath their feet like jaws.
Immersion in this temperature, no matter how brief, meant death.

The monotony of progress through this unreal, leaden world became almost
unbearable. The repeated strainings and twistings they suffered in
walking the slippery ridge reduced the men to weariness; their legs grew
clumsy and their feet uncertain. Had they found a camping-place they
would have stopped, but they dared not forsake the thin thread that
linked them with safety to go and look for one, not knowing where the
shore lay. In storms of this kind men have lain in their sleeping-bags
for days within a stone's-throw of a roadhouse or village. Bodies have
been found within a hundred yards of shelter after blizzards have
abated.

Cantwell and Grant had no choice, therefore, except to bore into the
welter of drifting flakes.

It was late in the afternoon when the latter met with an accident.
Johnny, who had taken a spell at the rear, heard him cry out, saw him
stagger, struggle to hold his footing, then sink into the snow. The dogs
paused instantly, lay down, and began to strip the ice pellets from
between their toes.

Cantwell spoke harshly, leaning upon the handle-bars: "Well! What's the
idea?"

It was the longest sentence of the day.

"I've--hurt myself." Mort's voice was thin and strange; he raised
himself to a sitting posture, and reached beneath his parka, then lay
back weakly. He writhed, his face was twisted with pain. He continued to
lie there, doubled into a knot of suff