we were fully half a mile above the white world now, and greatly encouraged. if we could keep this up for several hours i believed we might get beyond the snow barrier, or at least to a point where the cold was less intense. already it seemed to me that the air was less keen. we felt little or no wind as we were traveling with it, and while we had started our propeller and kept it going steadily it did not add enough to our speed to cause any perceptible current of air from ahead. by two o’clock we agreed that it was considerably warmer than when we had started. the thermometer, too, showed a difference of several degrees, though this might be due to a variety of causes. at the ship, however, edith reported no perceptible change, all of which added to our encouragement. gale, meantime, had investigated the sandwiches, and found them not only safe, but packed to prevent freezing. we each took two, in addition to an allowance 200of lozenges—all except mr. sturritt, who stood by his guns, or rather his tablets, and fared on this food only.

but by three o’clock it became evident that we must soon reach the end of the balloon stage of our journey. the cloudcrest had done nobly in her crippled condition, but she was settling steadily now, and there was nothing else that we could afford to throw away. it was better, we said, to face the disaster of landing at once with our supplies than to throw them away and land finally with nothing. we believed that we had covered no less than a hundred and fifty miles, a distance which i had hoped would mark the limit of the snow-line, but in this, evidently, i had been mistaken. it was still a white level ahead, over which, if we escaped destruction in making our landing (and this seemed extremely doubtful at the rate of speed we were going), we would now be obliged to proceed, and much more slowly, on foot. i determined, therefore, to stick to the balloon as long as possible, even at the cost of some risk and discomfort.

but as we drew near the surface we saw that what had appeared to us a smooth level was billowed and drifted like the sea. we braced ourselves for the moment when we should strike. the chances were that we would be flung out with violence or dragged to death miserably.

201nearer and nearer we came, rushing down on the marble whiteness beneath.

“do you know,” said gale suddenly, “it seems to me we are going down-hill.”

“if we are,” i replied, “it shows that the crust is getting thinner, and proves my theory of a warm country. i have thought it for some time, but i would not mention it until some one else—hi!—look out!”

there was a sudden shock, and a blinding smash of snow that choked and stunned us. i gasped and coughed to get my breath. when i opened my eyes i saw that we had cut through the peak of the high drift i had seen coming just ahead, and bounded several feet into the air. but presently we settled again, and there was another jerk and smash, and another bound.

“we’re hitting only the high places,” gasped gale.

“we won’t hit many more,” i gasped back.

we did hit another at that instant, and plowed through still another immediately afterward. then we appeared to strike a comparatively smooth place, for we felt the rush and bump of the snow beneath almost constantly, though the spray of it became a blinding volume that meant suffocation and death.

“cut the ropes!” shouted gale, “and let her go!”

202he was seated in the stern, and must have suited the action to the word, for i felt the bow, where i was, rise, and looking back saw gale holding on for dear life to keep from spilling out behind. he did not look contented, and evidently had changed his mind about a through ticket. like uncle laxart, he was willing to wait for the next balloon, or to walk, or to go in any way that was quieter. ferratoni and sturritt were also sawing at the side ropes, and i quickly got my knife ready to sever the single rope at the bow last. mr. sturritt succeeded in getting the ropes on his side cut off first, and for some moments our boat, or rather our sled, for it was that now, was pitching or rolling through the drifts on side or bottom, just as it happened. then we seemed to right, and i guessed, though i could not see, that ferratoni had in some manner got his ropes cut away. our sled was being pulled now by its single cord up hill and down dale, helter-skelter, lickety-split, bounding, leaping, plunging, and courting destruction. from out of the madness of it all came gale’s voice.

“here we come! head us, somebody! dern our fool souls, we’re runnin’ away!” and a second later, “cut her, nick, cut her! i can’t stick on any longer!”

“cut her, nick, cut her! i can’t stick on any longer!”—page 202.

i had been holding the edge of my knife to the rope, hesitating to cut, for the reason that we appeared 203to have slowed down somewhat, and were yet making such excellent time. now, with a slash, we were free.

there was a sudden halting, a plunge, a wild medley of legs and arms and ropes and antarctic snow, and over all a tightly fitting cover, and blackness.

the cover was the overturned boat. the blackness, the inside of it, where i was. i was half stunned at first, however, and did not realize just what had occurred. then i heard gale’s voice outside.

“ring up the curtain, and let’s see what’s left.”

i braced my back against whatever was above me and it rose. then the light came under, and i saw gale. together we pushed and pulled up the boat and righted it. under the boat with me had fallen both mr. sturritt and ferratoni. the latter was gasping and getting his wind. the former was white and senseless, but opened his eyes almost immediately, and sat up. gale, who had rolled out behind into a comfortable drift, was quite merry.

“look yonder,” he laughed.

i looked to the south and upward, as he pointed, and saw a dark spot against the sky. it was the bag of the cloudcrest.

“if you get there before we do,” sang gale.

“chauncey gale,” i said, “if every exploring 204party had a man like you along there would be no such thing as failure.”

“i think we’d better talk a little to johnnie if the telephone’s working,” he said. “she may think we’ve gone to sleep.”

we found the apparatus buried in the snow, but apparently uninjured. the little bell on it rang as soon as the snow was poked away.

“hello,” called gale, “that you, johnnie? matter? with us? why, nothing. we’ve been busy, that’s all.—no, not quite so loud as it was.—yes. bell didn’t ring, maybe.—noise you heard? oh, slacking down the propeller i guess. or maybe nick singing. we’ve camped for the night.—no. nick thought it best now we’ve got where it’s warm. didn’t know what we might get into, you know.—yes, bully!—yes, had to let out some gas. we’ll have to throw out ballast of course in the morning.—good place? oh, yes,—nice and clean.—no, not too warm.—no, no trees yet.—oh, why—we—we hitched it to—that is—we tied it to—to”—gale slipped his hand over the transmitter and turned to me helplessly. “nick, what under heavens did we hitch the balloon to, for the night? tell me quick!”

“a—a peculiar petrified formation,” i said hastily. “might have been a tree, at one time, you know.”

“nick says it’s a petrified tree.—yes, only a few 205of ’em left.—no. tell biff to hold the fort.—yes, we must camp, now. good-by!” he turned to me again. “nick,” he said, “that was a good petrified lie of yours, and it worked in bully. no use to worry the little girl,” he added, “she’ll think about us enough, anyway.”

we prepared for the night. there was still a feeble sun in the west, and we made haste to get into comfortable quarters before it left us. i had learned something of navigation on the vessel, and securing an angle i calculated that we had made somewhat more than one hundred and sixty miles during the five hours of aerial travel. we were convinced now that the snow surface sloped to the southward. our horizon showed this when we ascended to the top of the highest drifts, and the temperature also indicated our approach to a warmer zone. that the frozen crust was getting thinner we had no doubt, but the end of it seemed yet far distant, and the temperature about us was by no means of a sort to suggest a summer wardrobe.

the mechanical skill of chauncey gale now became manifest. inverting our boat once more, there appeared folded legs which when pulled down formed short uprights. also, there was a canvas that dropped around these, and made a continuous wall, with a flap door in front. on the snow floor inside we spread our furs, and at the opening there 206was presently a little electric stove going, on which mr. sturritt was busily melting snow and preparing tea. this with some sandwiches and a generous round of lozenges formed our evening meal. we ate it, reclining on our furs, and were really quite cozy and comfortable. i had a presentiment that i could not adopt mr. sturritt’s condensed food as a continuous diet. it would have been treason, however, to say so at this stage. gale was very delicate in the matter.

“what’s a picnic without peanuts!” he said, as he lit a cigar, and lay back in the darkness. “and, by the way, bill, how many of those sandwiches have we got?”

“why, i think plenty for—er—to-morrow—that is—at the present rate of consumption.”

“um—well, maybe we’d better begin tapering to-morrow then. one a meal, instead of two. we don’t want to break in on tablets too suddenly, you know.”

we crept into our sleeping bags—gale and i together. we heard the clatter of fine drifting snow on our roof and canvas wall. we were not cold, and drowsiness presently came stealing over me—the reaction after all the excitement of the day.

then out of the darkness came the face of edith gale. we were far apart for the first time in a year. long, desolate, frozen miles lay between us. 207to-morrow night the distance would be still greater. she did not know our plight—of that i was glad. yet, in the end, it might be no worse than hers. the billowcrest might never escape from her ice-locked harbor. and it was i who had brought all of this to pass. we were both isolated in this great frozen world, and all through a mad dream of my boyhood. i had an inclination to toss on my pillow, but the limits of the sleeping-bag did not permit this luxury. from out of the darkness at the other end of the boat came the voice of ferratoni.

“it will avail nothing to disturb yourself,” he said gently, “and a good-night word would be comforting.”

i had forgotten the telephone. i reached out an arm for it now, and touched the call button. almost immediately it answered, and then came edith’s voice.

“hello! who is it?”

“it’s me—we’re just going to sleep and want to say good night.”

“are you really warm and nice? and is daddy comfortable?”

“yes, he’s asleep, i think.”

“no, he isn’t,” said gale. “give me that phone a minute.”

“hi, johnnie, that you?—yes. you better go, 208too.—can’t sleep? why?—oh, pshaw! we’re snug as a bug. go on, now. say your prayers over twice, and get zar to sing ‘brown cows’ to you! good night!”

he handed me the transmitter.

“good night,” i said.

“good night, dear,” she called, “and god bless you!”

a sweet peace and comfort came upon me.

“ferratoni,” i said, “you deserve a crown!” but he did not answer.

drowsiness once more came down like a soft curtain. then the sleepy voice of gale:

“bill!”

“yes, sir.”

“how did it happen, when you cut the rope to-day and the balloon shot up, that your weight didn’t jerk us all out? i didn’t feel any jerk.”

“no, sir—i—i—had grabbed—that is—seized hold quite firmly of the bit of rope above, sir.”

there was another silence, and then i half-heard, mingled with a dream that was just beginning, the far-off sleepy voice of gale, whispering,

“bully old bill!”