Which is how it happened that when Peter stumbled and fell, and found
himself unable to rise, the others had no knowledge of it.

As the big man went down, he essayed to rise quickly, but his right leg
refused to move.

"Broken!" he said to himself, as one noting a trivial occurrence.
"Queer, to break a leg, falling in a bed of soft snow!"

But that was exactly what he had done, and realizing it, he set up a
yell that would have made a North American Indian envy its force and
volume.

But for all the good it did, it might as well have been a whisper. The
wind, though not violent, was against him, and carried the sound away
from the plodding travelers. His friends could not hear it. Not looking
back, as indeed, they had no thought of doing, they did not miss their
fallen comrade and on they toiled, ignorant of the fact that they were
three instead of four now.

And Peter,--big, strong Peter Crane,--brave, intrepid Peter Boots,--sat
there in the furious snowstorm, unable to rise, but with brain and mind
vividly alive to what had happened.

Quick of thought, always, he now traced with lightning rapidity, just
what the future held for him--and such a short future, at
that--unless----

His only hope lay in his lung power.

He yelled, screamed, whistled, hooted, and put all of his strength and
nerve force in his desperate efforts to reach the ears of his comrades.

But it was impossible. The cruel wind drove his voice away from those it
was meant to reach, the snowflakes filled his open mouth as he shouted;
and as hope failed, strength failed and Peter faced his fate.

Strong, able-bodied, save for the broken leg, he tried to crawl along.
The result was pitiful, for he merely floundered in the deep mass of
soft whiteness. His share of the luggage was heavy packs, nothing of
which he could make a flag of distress or even build a fire. He felt for
his matches, and lighting a cigarette, waved it aloft, almost smiling at
his tiny beacon.

Then came despair. His mind seemed to grow more alert as his body was
overcome by the cold. His blood boiled, even as it froze in his veins.
He felt abnormally acute of intellect, and plead with himself to think
of something,--to invent something that would save his life.

Yet he knew there was no hope. The fast-falling snow obliterated all
tracks almost instantly. Even though the others missed him, they could
never find him, and,--this thought struck a new chill through his
v