For a good two hundred yards Philip set a dog-trot pace for
Celie, who ran courageously at his side. At the end of that
distance he stopped. Celie was panting for breath. Her hood had
slipped back and her face was flushed like a wildflower by her
exertion. Her eyes shone like stars, and her lips were parted a
little. She was temptingly lovely, but again Philip lost not a
second of unnecessary time. He picked her up in his arms again and
continued the race. By using every ounce of his own strength and
endurance in this way he figured that their progress would be at
least a third faster than the Eskimos would follow. The important
question was how long he could keep up the pace.

Against his breast Celie was beginning to understand his scheme as
plainly as if he had explained it to her in words. At the end of
the fourth hundred yards she let him know that she was ready to
run another lap. He carried her on fifty yards more before he
placed her on her feet. In this way they had gone three-quarters
of a mile when the trail turned abruptly from its easterly course
to a point of the compass due north. So sharp was the turn that
Philip paused to investigate the sudden change in direction. The
stranger had evidently stood for several minutes at this point,
which was close to the blasted stub of a dead spruce. In the snow
Philip observed for the first time a number of dark brown spots.

"Here is where he took a new bearing--and a chew of tobacco," said
Philip, more to himself than to Celie. "And there's no snow in his
tracks. By George, I don't believe he's got more than half an
hour's start of us this minute!"