flood interfered with their efforts.  The many branches of the stream forced them to make repeated crossings, for the delta was no more than an endless series of islands through which the current swirled.  When dusk overtook them they were wet, weary, and weak from hunger.  With the dawn they were up and at it again, but their task became constantly more difficult because of the floating glacier ice, which increased with every mile.  They were obliged to exercise the extremest caution.  Hour after hour they strained against the current, until the ropes bit into their aching flesh, bringing raw places out on neck and palm.  Hour after hour the ice, went churning past, and through it all came the intermittent echo of the caving glaciers ahead of them.

Dan Appleton realized very soon whither the journey was leading, and at thought of actually facing those terrors which loomed so large in conjecture his pulses began to leap.  He had a suspicion of O’Neil’s intent, but dared not voice it.  Though the scheme seemed mad enough, its very audacity fascinated him.  It would be worth while to take part in such an undertaking, even if it ended in failure.  And somehow, against his judgment, he felt that his leader would find a way.

For the most part, O’Neil was as silent as a man of stone, and only on those rare occasions when he craved relief from his thoughts did he encourage Dan to talk.  Then he sometimes listened, but more frequently he did not.  Slater had long since become a dumb draught animal, senseless to discomfort except in the hour of relaxation when he monotonously catalogued his ills.

“Are you a married man?” O’Neil inquired once of Dan.

“Not yet, sir.”

“Family?”

“Sure!  A great big, fine one, consisting of a sister.  But she’s more than a family—­she’s a religion.”  Receiving encouragement from his employer’s look of interest, he continued:  “We were wiped out by the San Francisco earthquake, and stood in the bread line for a while.  We managed to save four thousand dollars from the wreck, which we divided equally.  Then we started out to make our fortunes.  It was her idea.”

“You came to Cortez?”

“Yes.  Money was so easy for me that I lost all respect for it.  The town rang with my mirth for a while.  I was an awful fool.”

“Education!”

“Now it’s my ambition to get settled and have her with me.  I haven’t had a good laugh, a hearty meal, or a Christian impulse since I left her.”

“What did she do with her half of the fortune?”

“Invested it wisely and went to work.  I bought little round celluloid disks with mine; she bought land of some sort with hers.  She’s a newspaper woman, and the best in the world—­or at least the best in Seattle.  She wrote that big snow-slide story for The Review last fall.  She tells ’em how to raise eight babies on seven dollars a week, or how to make a full set of library furniture out of three beer kegs, a packing-case, and an epileptic icebox.  She runs the ‘Domestic Economy’ column; and she’s the sweetest, the cleverest, the most stunning—­”