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Blue Envelope

<h2 id="id01083" style="margin-top: 4em">CHAPTER XV</h2> <h5 id="id01084">TWO RED RIDING HOODS</h5> 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. <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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