mpelling one man to bale and
leaving one man to paddle. Headway could not be made. They ran along
the shallow shore and went overboard, one man ahead on the tow-line, the
other shoving on the canoe. They fought the gale up to their waists in
the icy water, often up to their necks, often over their heads and buried
by the big, crested waves. There was no rest, never a moment's pause
from the cheerless, heart-breaking battle. That night, at the head of
Tagish Lake, in the thick of a driving snow-squall, they overhauled the
_Flora_. Antonsen fell on board, lay where he had fallen, and snored.
Churchill looked like a wild man. His clothes barely clung to him. His
face was iced up and swollen from the protracted effort of twenty-four
hours, while his hands were so swollen that he could not close the
fingers. As for his feet, it was an agony to stand upon them.

The captain of the _Flora_ was loth to go back to White Horse. Churchill
was persistent and imperative; the captain was stubborn. He pointed out
finally that nothing was to be gained by going back, because the only
ocean steamer at Dyea, the _Athenian_, was to sail on Tuesday morning,
and that he could not make the back trip to White Horse and bring up the
stranded pilgrims in time to make the connection.

"What time does the _Athenian_ sail?" Churchill demanded.

"Seven o'clock, Tuesday morning."

"All right," Churchill said, at the same time kicking a tattoo on the
ribs of the snoring Antonsen. "You go back to White Home. We'll go
ahead and hold the _Athenian_."

Antonsen, stupid with sleep, not yet clothed in his waking mind, was
bundled into the canoe, and did not realize what had happened till he was
drenched with the icy spray of a big sea, and heard Churchill snarling at
him through the darkness:--

"Paddle, can't you! Do you want to be swamped?"

Daylight found them at Caribou Crossing, the wind dying down, and
Antonsen too far gone to dip a paddle. Churchill grounded the canoe on a
quiet beach, where they slept. He took the precaution of twisting his
arm under the weight of his head. Every few minutes the pain of the pent
circulation aroused him, whereupon he would look at his watch and twist
the other arm under his head. At the end of two hours he fought with
Antonsen to rouse him. Then they started. Lake Bennett, thirty miles in
length, was like a millpond; but, half way across, a gale from the south
smote them and turned the wate