When they had eaten their simple meal of tea, hard bread, and pemmican,
White's ankle was bathed with water as hot as he could bear it, and
then the weary lads turned in for such sleep as their cheerless
quarters might yield. About midnight the wind that had for many days
blown steadily from the eastward changed to northwest, and, with the
coming of daylight, it was blowing half a gale from that direction.
To Cabot this change meant little or nothing, and he was suggesting
that they remain where they were until White's leg should be thoroughly
rested, when the other interrupted him with:
"But we can't stay here. Don't you feel the change of wind?"
"What of it?" asked Cabot.
"Oh, nothing at all, only that it will drive the ice out to sea, and,
if we haven't reached land before it begins to move, we'll go with it."
"You don't mean it!" cried Cabot, now thoroughly alarmed. "In that
case we'd best get a move on in a hurry. Do you think your leg will
stand the trip?"
"It will have to," rejoined White, grimly; and a few minutes later they
had resumed the toilsome progress that was now a race for life. But it
was a snail's race, for the task of moving the sled had devolved
entirely upon Cabot, White having all he could do to drag himself
along. Each step gave him such exquisite pain that, by the time they
had accomplished a couple of miles, he was crawling on hands and knees.
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