Hastily she stripped off a bit of fat and having lighted it, watched it flare up and burn rapidly.  She laughed and clapped her hands.

But before she could cut off a bit of meat to roast over its flames, the soft ice began melting beneath it and the flames flickered out with a snapping flutter.

This would not do.  There must be some other way found.  Rising, she drove her harpoon into the snow at the crest of an ice pile.  To this she fastened her deer skin, that it might act as a beacon to guide her back to her food supply.  Then she turned about the ice pile and began wandering in search of she hardly knew what.

She at last came upon some old ice, with cakes ground round and discolored with age and then with a little cry of joy she started forward.  The thing she saw had been discarded as worthless long ago; some gasoline schooner’s crew had thrown it overboard.  It was an empty five-gallon can which had once held gasoline.  It was red with rust, but she pounced upon it and hurried away.

Once safely back at her lodge she used the harpoon to cut out a door in the upper end of the can.  After cutting several holes in one side, she placed it on the ice with the perforated side up and put a strip of blubber within.  This she lighted.  It gave forth a smoky fire, with little heat, but much oil collected in the can.  Seeing this, she began fraying out the silk ribbon of her pajamas.  When she had secured a sufficient amount of fine fuzz she dropped it along the edge of the oil which saturated it at once.  She lighted this, which had formed itself into a sort of wick, and at once she had a clear and steady flame.

She had solved the problem.  In her seal oil oven, meat toasted beautifully.  In half an hour she was enjoying a bountiful repast.  After the feast, she sat down to think.  She was fed for the moment and apparently safe enough, but where was she and whither was she being carried by this drifting ice floe?

* * * * *

For a second, after seeing the face of the Russian on the ice, Johnny Thompson stood motionless.  Then he turned and ran, ran madly out among the ice piles.  Heedless of direction he ran until he was out of breath and exhausted, until he had lost himself and the Russian completely.

No, Johnny was not running from the Russian.  He was running from himself.  When he saw the Russian’s face, lit up as it was by the flare of the flames that had burst forth from that abandoned igloo, there had been something so crafty, so cruel, so remorselessly terrible about it that he had been seized with a mad desire to kill the man where he stood.

But Johnny felt, rather than knew, that there were very special reasons why the Russian must not be killed, at least not at that particular moment.  Perhaps some dark secret was locked in his crafty brain, a secret which the world should know and which would die if he died.  Johnny could only guess this, but whatever might be the reason he must not at this moment kill the man whom he suspected of twice attempting his life.  So he fled.