The Girl Detective Megapack: 25 Classic Mystery Novels for Girls

by Mildred A. Wirt

  “Guess we’d better stick right here,” said Marian, and Lucile agreed.

  “Now,” suggested Lucile, “we’ll put your middy on a paddle and set it up as a sign of distress; then, since the ice isn’t piling, I think we might both sleep a little while.”

  The flag was soon hoisted, and the girls, with the sealskin square beneath them, lay down under the deerskins and attempted to sleep. But the deerskins were not large enough to cover them, and kept sliding off. They were chilled through and sleep was impossible.

  “Lucile,” said Marian at last, “I believe we could set the kayak up and bank it solidly into place, then creep into it and sleep there.”

  “We might,” said Lucile doubtfully.

  The kayak was soon set, and, after many doublings and twistings, with much laughter they managed to slide down into it, and there, with two of the deerskins for a mattress and two for covers, they at last fell asleep in one another’s arms, as peacefully as children in a trundle-bed.

  “Oh, Marian, you’re too—too chubby!” Lucile laughed, as she attempted to struggle from the bean-pod-like bed, after they had slept for some time.

  Their first glance at the break in the floe told them it had widened rather than narrowed. A look skyward showed them that the fog too had thickened. Lucile’s brow wrinkled; her eyes were downcast.

  “Cheer up!” said Marian. “You can never tell what will happen. Things change rapidly in this Arctic world. We’d better explore our ice-floe, hadn’t we? And don’t you think we could eat a bit before we go?”

  Cheered by the very thought of something to be done, Lucile munched her half of the pilot biscuit and bit of reindeer meat contentedly.

  Then, after they had seen to it that their white middy flag was properly fastened, for this must act as a guide back to camp, they prepared to go exploring.

  Armed with the butcher knife, Lucile led the way. Marian carried the fishing tackle, and about her waist were wound the strings of the bola balls.

  “Quite some hunters,” laughed Marian. “Regular Robinson Crusoettes!”

  Several wide circles of the camp revealed nothing but ice, the whiteness of which was relieved here and there by spots of water, black as night.

  “Might be fish in them,” suggested Marian.

  “Yes, but you couldn’t catch them. You can only catch tomcod through a hole in the ice.”

  They were becoming tired, and had spoken of turning back, when Marian whispered:

  “Down!”

  She pulled her companion into the dark side of an ice-pile.

  A shadow had passed over the ice. Now it passed again, and Lucile, looking up, saw a small flock of ducks circling for a pool of water not twenty yards away.

  “Wha—what’s the idea?” she whispered.

  “Boola balls. Maybe we can catch one. They come from the north; not easily scared.”

  “Can you—”

  “Yes, my brother showed me how to handle the bola balls. You whirl them about your head a few times, then you let them go. If the string strikes a duck’s neck, it winds all about it; then the duck can’t fly.”

  With eager fingers Marian straightened out the twelve feet of double-strand leather thong.

  “There! There! They’re down!” whispered Lucile.

  “You stay here. If they rise and fly away, call me.”

  Creeping around two piles of ice, Marian threw herself flat and began to crawl the remaining distance across a flat pan of ice. Her heart was beating wildly, for in her veins there flowed a strain of the hunter’s blood of her Briton ancestors of many generations back.

  Now she was forty feet away, now twenty, now ten, and the ducks had not flown. Stretching out the thong, she rose on an elbow and set the balls whirling over her head. Once, twice, three times, then up she sprang and with one more whirl sent the string singing through the air.

  The young ducks, craning their necks with curiosity, did not move until something came crashing at them, and a wildly frantic girl sprang toward them.

  To the duck about whose neck the string had encircled, this move was too late, for Marian was upon him. And a moment later, looking very much like the old woman who went to market, with a dead gray duck dangling from her right arm, Marian returned in triumph.

  “Oh, Lucile,” she cried, “I got him! I got him!”

  “Fine! You shall have a medal,” said Lucile.

  “But how will we cook him?”

  “Well,” said Lucile, after a moment’s thought, “it’s growing colder; going to freeze hard. They say freezing meat is almost as good as cooking it. I don’t know—”

  “Look!” cried Marian suddenly, balancing herself at the crest of a high pile of ice. “What’s all that black a little way over there to the left? It’s not like ice. Do you suppose it could be an island?”

  “Is the ice piling there?” Lucile asked, clinging to her friend’s side. “No, it isn’t, so it can’t be an island, for the island would stop the ice as it flows and make it pile up.”

  “But what can it be?”

  “We can’t go over there, for we can’t see our flag from there.”

  “Yes, we can,” said Marian. “I’ll take off my petticoat and put it on this ice-pile. We can see it from there, and when we get back here we can see the flag.”

  This new beacon was soon established. Then, with trembling and eager footsteps, the girls hastened to what appeared to be an oasis in a desert of ice.

  CHAPTER XIII

  STRANGE DISCOVERIES

  It was a strange sight that met the eyes of the two girls as they paused halfway to the dark patch on the surface of the ice which loomed like a giant’s shadow in the snow-fog. With eager feet they dashed on, leaping narrow chasms and stumbling over ice barriers in their mad rush.

  The revelation which came as they rounded the last pile of ice was both a surprise and a disappointment. Great heaps of ashes, piles of bottles and tin cans, frozen masses of garbage; junk of every description, from a rusty tin dipper to a discarded steel range, met their eyes.

  “It’s a graveyard,” murmured Marian, “a graveyard of things people don’t want.”

  “That some people didn’t want!” corrected the more practical Lucile. “Marian, we’re rich!”

  “Rich?” Marian stared.

  “Why, yes! Don’t you see? There’s an old clothes wringer; that’s got a lot of wood in it. And there’s an old paper bucket. That’ll burn. There’s a lot of things like that. It won’t take any time at all to get enough wood to cook our duck!”

  “A fire! A fire!” exclaimed Marian, jumping up and down in a wild dance. Then, seized with Lucile’s spell of practical philosophy, she grasped a rusty tin kettle.

  “We can cook it in this. There’s a hole in it, but we can draw a cloth into that, and we can scour it up with ashes.”

  The next few minutes echoed with glad exclamations: “Here’s an old fork!” “Here’s half a sack of salt!” “Here are two rusty spoons!” “Here’s a broiler,” and so it went on.

  One would have believed they were in the greatest department store in the land, with the privilege of carrying away anything that would fit in their kitchen and that suited their fancy. Truth was, they were rummaging over the city of Nome’s vast garbage pile. That garbage pile had been accumulated during the previous year, and was, at this time, several hundred miles from the city. During the long nine months of winter the water about Nome is frozen solid some two miles out to sea. All garbage and junk is hauled out upon the ice with dog-teams and dumped there. When spring comes the ice loosens from the shore, and, laden with its great cargo of unwanted things, carries it through Bering Straits to haunt the Arctic Ocean, perhaps for years to come. It is moved hither and yon until time and tide and many storms have at last ground it into oblivion.

  The long Arctic twilight had begun to fall when the two girls, hungry and weary, but happily laden with many treasures which were to make life more possible on their floating palace of ice,
made their way toward their camp.

  Besides scraps of wood enough for two or three small fires, and cooking utensils of various sorts, they had found salt, a part of a box of pepper, and six cans of condensed milk which had doubtless been frozen several times but had never been opened.

  “We could live a week,” said Lucile exultantly, “even if we didn’t have another bit of good luck.”

  “Yes-s,” said Marian slowly, “but let’s hope we don’t have to; I’m afraid I’d get awful hungry.”

  They dined that night, quite happily, on a third of their duck, soup made of duck’s broth and condensed milk, and half of a pilot biscuit.

  “Oh, Marian,” said Lucile, as she thought of sleep, “that kayak’s so crowded when we sleep there.”

  “Yes-s,” said Marian, thoughtfully, “it is. I wonder if we couldn’t make a sleeping-bag?”

  At once needles and some sinew thread found in the native’s hunting bag were gotten out, the four deerskins were spread out, two on the bottom and two on top, with the fur side inside, and they went to work with a will to fashion a rude sleeping-bag.

  Their fingers shook with the chill wind that swept across the ice and their eyelids drooped often in sleep, yet they persevered and at last the thing was complete.

  “Are you sure it won’t be cold?” said Lucile, who had never slept in a sleeping-bag.

  “Oh, no, I know it won’t,” Marian assured her. “I’ve heard my father tell of spreading his on the frozen ground when it was thirty below zero, and sleeping snug as a ‘possum in a hollow tree.”

  “All right; let’s try it,” and Lucile spread the bag on the sealskin square.

  After removing their skirts and rolling them up for pillows, together they slid down into the soft, warm depths of their Arctic bed.

  “Um-m,” whispered Marian.

  “Um-m,” Lucile answered back. And the next moment they were both fast asleep.

  All through the night they slept there with the Great Dipper circling around the North Star above them, and with the ice-floe carrying them, who could tell where?

  The two following days were spent in fruitless hunting for wild duck and in making trips to the rubbish pile. These trips netted nothing of use save armfuls of wood which helped to add a cheery tone to their camp. Though the fog held on, the nights grew bitterly cold. They were glad enough to creep into their sleeping-bag as soon as it grew dark. There for hours they lay and talked of many things: Of the land to which the ice-floe might eventually bring them, the people who would be living there, and the things they would have to eat. Then, again, they would talk of school days, and the glad, good times that now seemed so far away. Of one subject they never spoke; never once did one wonder to the other what their families were doing in their far-away homes. They did not dare. It would have been like singing “Home Sweet Home” to the American soldiers on the fields of France.

  The second day’s tramp to the rubbish pile brought them a great surprise. They were busily searching through the piles of cans for a possible one that had not been opened, when Lucile, happening to hear a noise behind her, looked up. The next instant, with a startled whisper, which was almost a cry, “Marian! Quick!” she seized Marian by the arm and dragged her around an ice-pile.

  “Wha—what is it?” whispered the startled Marian.

  “Bear!”

  * * * *

  At this very moment, on another section of that same vast floe, Phi lay flat on his stomach, his eye traveling the length of his rifle barrel. His brow was wrinkled. He moved uneasily, as a gambler moves who would risk all on one throw of the dice but does not quite dare.

  He shook the benumbed fingers of his right hand, then gripped the rifle once more. His forefinger was on the trigger. He had arrived at a crisis. He was half starved and freezing. For three days now he had wandered over the vast expanse of ice-pans that covered the waters of Bering Straits. During that three days he had secured only two small birds, dovekies they were, birds who linger all winter in the Arctic. These he had shared with Rover.

  From the moment the snow-fog had settled down upon him and the break in the ice-floe had blocked his way so effectively, he had wandered about without knowing where he was going. The ice-floe constantly drifting, first this way, then that, may have carried him east, west, north, south. Who could tell where? Who could guess his position on the surface of the ocean at the present moment?

  A brown seal was the cause of his excitement now. The seal, lying asleep upon the ice-pan before him, must weigh something like seventy pounds. This was meat enough to last him and his dog many days.

  He was not a good shot and knew it. He had wandered over the ice-floes of the ocean at times with a rifle under his arm, yet never before had he stalked a seal. Only the grimmest necessity could have induced him to do so now. There was something altogether too human in those bobbing brown heads as they appeared above the water or lifted to gaze about them on the ice. But now his need and the need of the dog demanded prompt action.

  Two things made a perfect shot a necessity: The seal was sleeping beside his hole; if he was not killed instantly he would drop into the hole and be lost to the hunter. And this was the last cartridge in the rifle. The two birds had cost him four shots. The seal must be secured by his last one. There seemed a certain irony about a fate which would allow him to waste his ammunition on small birds, then offer him such a prize as this with only one shot to win.

  He knew well enough how to stalk a seal; he had watched the Eskimos do it many times. Lying flat on your stomach, you cautiously creep forward. Every moment or two you bob your head up and down in imitation of a seal awakened and looking about. If your seal is awake, since his eyesight is poor he will take you for a member of his own species and will go back to sleep again.

  Knowing all this, Phi had dragged himself a hundred feet across the ice, without disturbing the seal. Only fifty feet remained, yet to his feverish brain this seemed too great a distance. Seeing his seal bobbing his head, he bobbed in turn, then, when the seal had dozed off again, continued his crawl.

  He had made another six yards when, with a sudden resolve, he slid the rifle forward, lifted it to position, glanced steadily along its barrel, then pulled the trigger.

  There followed a metallic snap, then a splash, The rifle had missed fire; the seal had dropped into its pool.

  For a moment the boy lay there motionless, stunned by the realization that he was still without food and was now powerless to procure any.

  “Well, anyway it was luck for the seal,” he smiled uncertainly. “It sure was his lucky day!”

  Rising unsteadily, he put two fingers to his mouth and uttered a shrill whistle. From behind a towering ice pile, Rover, gaunt and miserable yet unmistakably a white man’s dog, and, by his bearing, a one time leader of the team, came limping toward him.

  “Well,” the boy said, patting the dog, “it’s hard luck, but we don’t eat. It’s harder for you than for me, for you are old and I’m young, but somehow—somehow, we’ll have to manage. If only we knew. If only—”

  He stopped abruptly and his eyes opened wide. Off to the left of them, like a giant fist thrust through the fog, there had appeared the dark bulk of a granite cliff.

  “Land, Rover, land!” he muttered hoarsely.

  The next moment, utterly overcome with excitement, he sank weakly to the surface of the ice-pan.

  “This won’t do,” he said cheerily, after a brief period of rest. “Rover, old boy, we must be traveling. If the ice is crowding that shore, which it must be from the feel of the wind, there’s a chance for us yet.”

  CHAPTER XIV

  A LONESOME ISLAND

  After fleeing from the great white bear, the two girls crouched behind the ice pile with bated breath. Expecting at any moment to see the long neck of the gigantic beast thrust around the corner of the ice pile, they longed to flee, yet, not daring, remained crouching there.

  “Do you think he saw us?” Marian whispered. />
  “No. He was snuffing around looking for something to eat.”

  Marian shivered.

  Lucile worked her way about the ice-pile to a point where she could see through a crack between cakes, then she motioned Marian to join her. Together they watched the antics of the clumsy white bear.

  “My! Isn’t it huge!” whispered Marian.

  For a time the bear amused himself by knocking rusty ten-gallon gasoline cans about. At last, seeming to scent something, he began tearing up a particular garbage pile. Presently a huge rat ran out and went scurrying away. There followed a lively chase which ended in a prolonged squeal.

  “He got him!” Marian shivered.

  The bear had moved out of their view. Cautiously, they turned and made their way from ice-pile to ice-pile, from the rubbish heap toward camp.

  “I hope he doesn’t get our scent and follow us,” said Lucile. “They don’t usually bother people much, though.”

  In spite of her belief that the bear would not harm them, Lucile did not sleep well that night. “You can never tell what a hungry bear might do,” she kept saying over and over to herself.

  At last, late in the night, she fell asleep and slept soundly until morning. When finally she did awake, it was with the feeling that somehow something had changed.

  “Land! Land!” something seemed to be whispering to her. It could have been nothing short of intuition which gave her this suggestion. They had been riding on the surface of a gigantic ice-floe. It was, perhaps, twenty miles wide by a hundred long. There was no sense of motion. So silent was its sweep, one might imagine oneself to be upon land; yet, as she crept quickly out of her sleeping-bag, she saw at once that the motion of the floe was arrested and off to the right she read the reason. A narrow stretch of rocky shore there cast back the first rays of the morning sun.

  “Marian! Marian!” she called excitedly. “Land! Land! An island!”

  There could be no questioning this great good fortune. The one remaining problem was to reach the shore of that island. They did not dare to abandon their kayak, sleeping-bag, and scanty supplies, for who could tell them that this was not a small uninhabited island? They had traveled many miles with the ice-floe in some direction, perhaps many directions. Who could say where they were now?