home."

Bennett said nothing. There was a long silence. Home! what did not that
word mean for them? To leave all this hideous, grisly waste of ice
behind, to have done with fighting, to rest, to forget responsibility,
to have no more anxiety, to be warm once more--warm and well fed and
dry--to see a tree again, to rub elbows with one's fellows, to know the
meaning of warm handclasps and the faces of one's friends.

"Dick," began Bennett abruptly after a long while, "if we get stuck here
in this damned ice I'm going to send you and probably Metz on ahead for
help. We'll make a two-man kyack for you to use when you reach the limit
of the pack, but besides the kyack you'll carry nothing but your
provisions, sleeping-bags, and rifle, and travel as fast as you can."
Bennett paused for a moment, then in a different voice continued: "I
wrote a letter last night that I was going to give you in case I should
have to send you on such a journey, but I think I might as well give it
to you now."

He drew from his pocket an envelope carefully wrapped in oilskin.

"If anything should happen to the expedition--to me--I want you to see
that this letter is delivered."

He paused again.

"You see, Dick, it's like this; there's a girl--" his face flamed
suddenly, "no--no, a woman, a grand, noble, man's woman, back in God's
country who is a great deal to me--everything in fact. She don't know,
hasn't a guess, that I care. I never spoke to her about it. But if