on the wreck, some two hundred yards from shore, a figure emerged from a small cabin aft. The stern of the ship had been carried completely about by the violence of the waves. It had left this little cabin, formerly the wireless cabin, high and dry.
The person came out upon the deck and scanned the horizon. Suddenly his eyes fell upon the cabin and the strange white signal which the girls had set fluttering there before they went to sleep.
Sliding a native kayak down from the deck, he launched it, then, leaping into the narrow seat, began paddling rapidly toward land.
Having beached his boat, he hurried toward the cabin. His hand was on the latch when he chanced to glance up at the white emblem of distress which floated over his head.
His hand dropped to his side; his mouth flew open. An expression of amazement spread over his face.
"Jumpin' Jupiter!" he muttered beneath his breath.
He beat a hasty retreat. Once in his kayak he made double time back to the wreck.
Marion was the first to awaken in the cabin. By the dull light that shone through the cracks, she could tell that it was growing dark.
Springing from her bunk, she put her hand to the latch. Hardly had she done this when the door flew open with a force that threw her back against the opposite wall. Fine particles of snow cut her face. The wind set every loose thing in the cabin bobbing and fluttering. The skirt they had attached to a stout pole as a signal was booming overhead like a gun.
"Ah! A blizzard!" she groaned.
Seizing the door, she attempted to close it. Twice, the violence of the storm threw her back.
When at last her efforts had been rewarded with success, she turned to rouse her companion. "Lucile! Lucile! Wake up! A blizzard!"
Lucile opened her eyes.
"Wha—wha—" she droned sleepily.
"A blizzard! A blizzard from the north!"
Lucile sat up quickly.
"From the north?" she exclaimed, fully awake in an instant. "The ice?"
"Perhaps."
"And if it comes?"
"We're stuck in Siberia, that's all, for eight or nine months. We won't dare try to cross the straits on the ice. No white man has ever done it, let alone a woman. Well," she smiled, "we've got food for five days, and five days is a long time. We'd better try to bring in some wood and get the dogs in here; they'd freeze out there."
Three days the blizzard raged. Such a storm at this season of the year had not been known on the Arctic for twenty years. The third day broke clear and cold, with the wind still blowing a gale. Lucile was the first to throw open the door. As it came back with a bang, something fell from the beam above and rattled to the floor.
She stooped to pick it up. "Look, Marion!" she exclaimed, "A key! A large brass key!"
Marion examined it closely. "What can it belong to?"
"The wreck perhaps. Looks like a steward's pass-key."
"But what would they save it for? You don't think—"
"If we could get out to the wreck, we'd see."
"Yes, but we can't. There—"
"Look, Marion!" Lucile's eyes were large and wild.
"The white line!" exclaimed Marion, gripping her arm.
It was true. Before them lay the dark ocean still flecked with foam, but at the horizon, gleaming whiter than burnished silver, straight, distinct, unmistakable, was a white line.
"And that means—"
"We're trapped!"
Lucile sank weakly into a chair. Marion began pacing the floor.
"Anyway," she exclaimed at last, "I can paint it! It will make a wonderful study."
Suiting action to words, she sought out her paint-box and was soon busy with a sketch, which, developing bit by bit, or rather, seeming to evolve out of nothing, showed a native dressed in furs, shading his eyes to scan the dark, tossing ocean. And beyond, the object of his gaze, was the silvery line. When she had finished, she playfully inscribed a title for the sketch at the bottom—"The Coming of the White Line."
For a moment she stood there thinking of the possibilities of a winter in this terrible land. Suddenly a glimmer of hope shot in out of the darkness—the strange, brown boy who had come to them out of the sea that day on Mutineer's Island! The scientist had said that he had probably been brought from somewhere to the north of Russia. If he should cross their path now, they would at least feel that, in all this wilderness, they had one friend. Then, with a smile, she realized how wildly improbable was the thought. To build a hope upon such a remote chance seemed utterly absurd.
As she put her paints away, something caught her eye. It was one corner of the blue envelop with the strange address upon it.