"Well, guess I'll be going. Got a match?"

He produced the borrowed cigaret. A sigh of hope escaped from the group
of natives and a match was thrust upon him.

"Thanks."

The match was of the sulphur kind, the sort that never blow out.

Nonchalantly Johnny lighted the cigaret, then, all too carelessly, he
flipped the match. Though it seemed a careless act, it was deftly done.

There came a sudden cry of alarm. But too late; the match dropped
squarely into the keg of alcohol. The next instant the place was all
alight with the blaze of the liquor, which flamed up like oil.

"This way out," exclaimed Johnny leading the procession for the door.
Lightly he bounded down the hill. He caught one glimpse of the young
woman as he passed, but this was no time for lingering farewells. The
owner of the still was on his trail.

Dodging this way and that, sliding over a wide expanse of ice, Johnny at
last eluded his pursuers in the wildly tumbled ice piles of the sea. As
he paused to catch his breath he heard the soft pat-pat of a footstep
and glancing up, caught a face peering at him round an ice pile.

"The Russian," he exclaimed.

* * * * *