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CHAPTER XIII

BACK TO OLD CHICAGO

In the spring all the ice from upper Behring Sea passes through Behring
Strait. One by one, like squadrons of great ships, floes from the shores
of Cape York, Cape Nome and the Yukon flats drift majestically through
that narrow channel to the broad Arctic Ocean.

So it happened that in due time the ice floe on which the Russian had
sought refuge drifted past the Diomede Islands and farther out, well
into the Arctic Ocean, met the floe on which the Jap girl had been lost
as it circled to the east.

All ignorant of the passenger it carried, the girl welcomed this
addition to her broad domain of ice. She had lived on the floe for days,
killing seal for her food and melting snow to quench her thirst. But of
late the cakes had begun to drift apart. There was danger that the great
pan on which she had established herself would drift away from the
others, and, in that case, if no seals came, she would starve. This new
floe crowded upon hers and made the one on which she camped a solid mass
again.

Spying some strange, dark spots on the newly arrived floe, she hurried
over to the place and was surprised to find that it was a great heap of
rubbish carted from some city. Though she did not know it, she guessed
that city was Nome.

With the keen pleasure of a child she explored the heaps, selecting here
a broken knife, there a discarded kettle, and again some other utensil
which would help her in setting up a convenient kitchen.

But it was as she made her way back to her camp that she received the
greatest shock. Suddenly, as she rounded a cake of ice, she came upon a
man sprawled upon the ice, as if dead. The girl took no chances. In the
land whence she came, it was not considered possible that this man
should die. She sprang between two up-ended cakes, and from this shelter
studied him cautiously. Yes, there was no mistaking him; it was the
Russian. A slight movement of one arm told her he was not dead. Whether
he was unconscious or was sleeping she could not tell.

Presently, after tying her dagger to her waist by a rawhide cord, she
crept silently forward. An ear inclined toward his face told her that he
was breathing regularly; he was sleeping the torpid sleep of one worn by
exhaustion, exposure and starvation.

Ever so gently she touched him. He did not move. Then, with one hand on
her dagger, she felt his clothing, as if searching for some object
hidden in his fur