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