TWO RED RIDING HOODS
Before Phi struck out for the unknown land which had so suddenly thrust
itself into his line of vision, he paused to ask himself the question
whether he had come upon some island or a point on the mainland.
Finding himself unable to answer the question, he at once set plans for
reaching that land.
The rifle, now a useless incumbrance, he left leaning against an
up-ended cake of ice. That shore, if not lifted high by a mirage, was
at least ten miles away. And ten miles to a boy and dog who have
appeased their hunger for three days with two small birds, is no mean
distance.
Bravely they struck out. Now they crossed a broad, level pan and now
climbed a gigantic pile of bowlder-like fragments that rolled and
slipped at their every move, threatening to send them crashing to the
surface of the ice-pans or to submerge them in the deep, open pool of
stinging water that lay at its base.
Exercising every precaution, the boy made his way slowly forward. More
than once he paused to wait for the dog, time after time lifting him
over a dangerous crevice or assisting him in climbing a particularly
difficult barrier.
"I know you'd help me if you could," he said with a smile as he
moistened his cracked lips, "so if we go down, we go together."
Time after time, dizzy-headed and faint, he sat down to rest, only to
rise after a moment and struggle on again. At times, too, he was
obliged to shake himself free from the spells of drowsiness which the
chill wind and brisk Arctic air threw over him.
"We--we'll make it, old boy. We--we'll make it," he repeated over and
over.
Little by little the landscape broadened before them. The bit of
rugged shore line which lay there like a vision might be a point of
land on the continent of North America or of Asia. Then again it might
be the side of an island. Phi thought of this in a vague sort of way.
His chief desire to put foot once more on something that did not drift
with wind and tide, he bent every effort to making the goal.
At last, after what seemed days of struggle, he stood within a quarter
of a mile of the shore.
The ice was piling on that shore, a scene of disordered grandeur beyond
description. It was as if the streets of a city, six or eight feet in
thickness and solid as marble, should suddenly begin to rise, to
buckle, to glide length upon length in wild confusion. For some time
the boy and the dog stood upon the last broad pan that did not pile
and, lost in speechless wonder, viewed that marvel of nature with the
eyes of unconcerned spectators.
At last the boy shook himself free from the charm. "Rover," there was
awe in his tone, "do you know what we must do? We must cross that and
reach that shore before the wind shifts or we are lost."
As if understanding his meaning, the dog lifted his nose in air and
song, the dismal song known only to the sled dog of the Arctic.
"Well--here goes!"
Phi scrambled to the surface of a gliding cake, then, having raced
across its surface, leaped a narrow chasm, to race on again. Such an
obstacle race had never before been entered into by a boy and a dog.
Rover, seeming to have regained some of the spirit of his younger days,
followed well. Once, with a dismal howl, he fell into a crevice, but
before an ice-pan could rear up and crush him, a strong arm dragged him
free.
They had made two-thirds of the distance when, on a broad pan that
shuddered as if torn by an earthquake, Phi paused. One glance at the
rocky coast brought a sharp exclamation to his lips.
"It's like the wall of a prison," he muttered; "straight up.
"No," he whispered a moment later, "there's a bare chance--that rocky
shelf. But it's fifteen feet above the ice, and how's one to reach it?
There may be a way. One can but try."
They were off again. Each fresh escape brought them face to face with
new and more startling dangers. Here they were lifted in air, to leap
away just in time from a crash. Here they crossed a pile of crushed
and slivered fragments only to face a dark and yawning pool of salt
water waiting to sting them into insensibility. But always there was a
way out. Each moment brought them closer to the frowning wall.
A last, close-up survey told the boy that there was no path, no
slanting incline, no rugged steps to the shelf above. But from the
shelf upward there appeared to be a possible ascent.
At that moment he saw something that made him catch his breath hard. A
gigantic ice-pan, measuring hundreds of feet from side to side, had
begun to glide upward over a mass of broken fragments toward that cliff.
"It will go as high as the shelf if it hasn't too many seams," he said
aloud. "It may go up. And it may crash. But it's our only chance."
He looked at the dog. That the old fellow could make this perilous
trip, could mount himself on the very edge of a giant, tilting cake of
ice and ride up--up--up, inch by inch and foot by foot, to pause there
a breathless distance in mid-air and then at the one critical second,
leap to safety on the rocky shelf, the boy did not dream for a moment.
Yet he had no thought of leaving Rover behind.
"Come on," he said quietly, "we'll make it somehow, or we'll go down
together."
Mounting the tilting monster, they stationed themselves at its very
edge and stood there motionless, a boy and a dog in the very midst of
one of nature's most stupendous demonstrations of power.
A long minute passed--two--three. They were now ten feet in air; the
shelf, a yawning distance still before them, appeared to frown down
upon them. To the right of them an ice-pan half the size of the one on
which they rode, having come within some ten feet of the wall, broke
and crumpled down with a crash.
Still their cake glided on. Now they were fifteen feet from the shelf,
now ten. A running jump for the boy would land him safely on the
ledge. But there was the dog. There came a creaking grind, a
snapping, crashing sound, then silence. The pan had broken in two.
Half of it had broken off under the strain. The part on which they
rode still stood firm. They were now twenty feet in air. A dark pool
of water lay beneath them. The boy gave one glance at the blue heavens
and the blinking stars; then, stooping, he picked up the dog and held
him in his arms. He stood there like a statue, a magnificent symbol of
calm in the midst of all this confusion.
With the ice still gliding upward, holding his breath, as if in fear
that the very force of it might send the hundreds of tons crashing to
the abyss below. Phi waited the closing of the gap.
Eight feet, seven, six, five, four.
"Now!" he breathed.
His right foot lifted, his left stiffened, his body shot forward.
The next moment there was a sickening crash--the ice-pan had broken in
a thousand pieces. But the boy and the dog, saved by a timely leap,
lay prone upon the surface of the rocky cliff.
For some time the boy lay sprawled upon the rocky ledge motionless.
This last supreme effort had drawn out his last reserve of nervous
energy. Amid the shrill scream of grinding ice rising from the tossing
mass below, he lay as one whose ears are closed forever to sound.
The dog, with ears dropping, eyes intent, lay watching him. At last
his tail wagged gently to and fro--there had been a flutter of motion
in the boy's right hand. Meekly the dog crawled forward to lick the
glove that covered that hand with his rough tongue. At that the boy
raised himself to a sitting position, and, rubbing his eyes, stared
about him.
"Rover, old boy," he drawled at last, "that was what you might call a
close squeak."
The dog rose and wagged his tail.
"Rover," the boy said solemnly, "I took a long chance for you just
then. Why did I do it? If you'd been the leader of my team for
several winters before old age overtook you; if you'd maybe pulled me
out of some blizzard where I'd have frozen to death if it hadn't been
for your keen sense of smell, which enabled you to follow the trail,
there'd have been some sense to it. But you weren't and you didn't;
you're only a poor, old, heroic specimen someone has played traitor to
and deserted in old age. Well, that's enough of that; we're on land
now. What land is it? What are the people like? When do we eat?
That last question is most important for the moment. What say we try
scaling the cliff and then look about a bit?"
The dog barked his approval. Together they began scaling the cliff,
which at times appeared to confront them as an unsurmountable barrier
and at others offered a gently rising slope of shale and rock.
* * * * * *
When Lucile and Marian had made sure that there were no people in the
deserted native village, they returned to the mysterious bungalow.
"We've got to get in there," said Marian, "don't matter whose it is."
Searching about, she found a stout pole. With this she pried off a
board from a window, then another and another.
"Give me a lift," she said, raising one foot from the ground.
Once boosted up she found that the window was not locked. The sash
went up with a surprising bang, and the next instant she was inside and
assisting Lucile to enter.
The place had a hollow sound. "Like an old, empty church," said Marian.
Lucile scratched a match. They were in a large room which was
absolutely empty. A hasty exploration of the three remaining rooms,
which were much smaller, revealed the same state of affairs.
"Now what," said Lucile, knitting her brows in deep thought, "do you
think of that?"
"Anyway, it's dry, and not too cold," said Marian.
"But it's empty, and I'm hungry. Say!" she exclaimed quickly, "you
bring in our things; I'll be back."
She bounded out of the window and hurried away toward the native
village, which lay silent in the moonlight.
Marian had succeeded in dragging their sleeping-bag and other
belongings through the window and was there waiting when Lucile called
from outside:
"Here, take this!"
"How heavy!" exclaimed Marian. And a moment later, upon receiving the
second object, "How cold!"
"The first," said Lucile, "is a flat, native seal-oil lamp. We can
burn our seal-oil in it. I have a handful of moss in my pocket to
string along the side for wick. It'll make it more cheery and it'll
seem warmer. The other," she went on, "is a frozen whitefish; found it
on one of the caches. Guess the natives won't miss it if they come
back."
"If they do. But where are they?" asked Marian in a puzzled tone of
voice.
"Dead, perhaps. Let's eat," she added abruptly, as Marian shivered.
"But, Lucile, we can't cook the fish."
"Don't have to. Frozen fish is good raw if it's frozen hard enough.
I've tried it before. You just shave it off thin like chipped dried
beef and gulp it right down before it tastes too fishy."
Marian did not think she would like it, but she found it not half bad.
When they had dined, and had sat by the yellow glow of their seal-oil
lamp for a time, they took a good long look at the moon as it shone out
over the shimmering whiteness of the sea.
"That," said Marian impressively, "is the same moon that is shining on
all our friends wherever they are to-night."
The thought gave them a deal of comfort.
When, in time, their sleeping-bag was spread out on the floor, and they
had snuggled comfortably down into its soft depths and were ready to go
off into the land of dreams, with their seal-oil lamp still flickering
in one corner, Marian said with a laugh: "Snug as two little Red Riding
Hoods."
"Yes, but if the big bear comes home?" murmured Lucile.
"He won't," said Marian with conviction. But the next moment her faith
was shattered. There came a sound from without, and the next instant
some heavy object banged against the door.
"What was that?" both exclaimed at once in hoarse whispers.