Many a mile we thus traveled, mostly up and down, making but little real
headway in crossing, running instead of walking most of the time as the
danger of being compelled to spend the night on the glacier became
threatening. Stickeen seemed able for anything. Doubtless we could have
weathered the storm for one night, dancing on a flat spot to keep from
freezing, and I faced the threat without feeling anything like despair;
but we were hungry and wet, and the wind from the mountains was still
thick with snow and bitterly cold, so of course that night would have
seemed a very long one. I could not see far enough through the blurring
snow to judge in which general direction the least dangerous route lay,
while the few dim, momentary glimpses I caught of mountains through
rifts in the flying clouds were far from encouraging either as weather
signs or as guides. I had simply to grope my way from crevasse to
crevasse, holding a general direction by the ice-structure, which was
not to be seen everywhere, and partly by the wind. Again and again I was
put to my mettle, but Stickeen followed easily, his nerve apparently
growing more unflinching as the danger increased.
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