others, and offered to let them mount his sled while he pulled them.

Beyond the cañon is a strip of woods three miles in length, which bears the name of Pleasant Camp, though it has not the first claim to the name. It does not contain the ruins of even a cabin or shanty—nothing, in fact, but trees, through which the wintry winds sough and howl dismally. There the party halted, ate lunch, rested for an hour, and then set out with the determination to make the next camping ground before night.

The ascent now became gradual, and before the day was spent they arrived at Sheep Camp, on the edge of the timber. This is the last spot where wood for fuel can be obtained until the other side of Chilkoot Pass is reached. The tent was pitched on top of the snow, the poles and pins being shoved down into it. Jeff took it upon himself to cut what fuel was needed, gathering at the same time a liberal quantity of hemlock brush, upon which to spread their blankets for beds.

Since it was necessary to use the stove, and it must rest on the snow, a simple arrangement provided against trouble from the melting of the latter. Three poles, eight feet in length, were laid parallel on the snow and the stove placed upon them. Although a hole was soon dissolved beneath, the length of the supports kept the stove upright.

THE TENT POLES WERE SHOVED DOWN INTO THE SNOW.

The experience which Jeff and Tim had had made them both excellent cooks, which was a fortunate thing for the boys, since they would have made sorry work in preparing a meal; but the art of the Irishman deserved the many compliments it received. With the aid of baking powder he prepared a goodly number of light, flaky biscuit, and by exposing some of the butter to the warmth of the stove, it was gradually changed from its stone-like hardness to a consistency that permitted it to be cut with a knife and spread upon the hot bread. The coffee was amber, clear, and fragrant, and with the condensed milk and sugar would have reflected credit upon the chef of any establishment. In addition, there were fried bacon and canned corn.

Until this time the boys had never believed they could eat bacon, but nothing could have had a more delicious flavor to them. It was not alone because of their vigorous appetites, but partly on account of the bitterly cold weather. There is a good deal of animal heat evolved in the digestion of fat bacon, and it is therefore among the favorite articles of food in the Arctic regions.

Probably there isn't a boy in the country who would not revolt at the thought of eating a tallow candle, and yet if he was exposed to the rigors of Greenland and the far north, he would soon look upon it as one of the greatest delicacies of the table.

The hemlock branches were now spread on top of the snow at the side of the tent, a large square of canvas was placed over them, upon which the blankets and robes were put, the whole forming a springy, comfortable bed.

Roswell and Frank were sure that in all their lives they were never so tired. Leaving the three men to talk and smoke, they stretched out on their blankets, wrapping themselves in them, and almost immediately sank into deep, dreamless slumber.

The sleep had lasted perhaps a couple of hours, when, without any apparent cause, Frank Mansley awoke in the full possession of his senses. Lying motionless, he listened to the soft breathing of his cousin beside him, while the regular respiration of the men left no doubt of their condition. Everything around was in blank, impenetrable darkness and all profoundly still.

"It's strange that I should awake like this," he thought, slightly shifting his position. "I'm tired, and was so drowsy that I felt as if I could sleep a week, but I was never wider awake than I am this minute—"

Amid the all-pervading silence he was sensible of a low, solemn murmur, like that of the distant ocean. At first it seemed to be the "voice of silence" itself, but it steadily increased in volume until its roar became overpowering. Startled and frightened, he lay still, wondering what it could mean, or whether his senses were deceiving him. Then he suddenly remembered the vast masses of ice and snow which towered above them all through the day. He recalled the stories he had read of the glaciers and avalanches, and how Tim McCabe had referred to them as sometimes overtaking travellers in this part of the world.

He knew what it meant, and, leaping from his couch, he shouted:

"Wake up! Quick! An avalanche is upon us!"

CHAPTER V.

THROUGH CHILKOOT PASS.

As Frank Mansley's words rang through the tent they were followed by the awful roar of the descending avalanche, and all awoke on the instant. But no one could do anything to save himself. They could only cower and pray to Heaven to protect them.

Something struck the side of the tent, like the plunge of a mountain torrent, yet it was not that, nor was it the snow. Tim McCabe knew its nature, and catching his breath, he called:

"It's the wind of the avalanche! That won't hurt ye!"

The wonder was that it did not blow the canvas like a feather from its path; but the tent held its position, and the appalling rush and roar ceased with more suddenness than it had begun. The throbbing air became still.

Jeff Graham, who had not spoken, struck a match, and holding it above his head, peered around the interior of the tent, which he observed had sagged a good deal from the impact of the avalanche's breath, though the stakes held their places in the snow. He saw Frank Mansley standing pale with affright, while Roswell, sitting on the edge of his couch, was equally startled. Ike Hardman had covered his face with his blanket, like a child, who thus seeks to escape an impending danger. Incredible as it may seem, Tim McCabe was filling his pipe in the gloom, preparatory to a smoke.

"Be aisy," was his comment, as he struck a match and held it above the bowl; "we're as safe as if in 'Frisco, and a little safer, for it's whin ye are there ye are liable to have an airthquake tumble the buildings about yer hid."

"Wasn't that an avalanche?" asked the amazed Frank.

"It was that, but it didn't hit us. If we had put up the tint a little beyant and further to the right, we'd've been mashed flat."

He spoke the truth. The enormous mass of snow, weighing thousands of tons, had toppled over and slid down the mountain-side with a roar like Niagara, but stopped short, just before reaching the tent. Some of the feathery particles sailed forward and struck the canvas, the greatest effect being produced by the wind, but the monster was palsied before he could reach forward and seize his victims.

When the situation became clear, every one uttered expressions of gratitude, but the boys were not relieved of all fear. What had taken place might occur again.

"Not a bit of it," was Tim's reassuring reply. "I've obsarved the things before, and we shan't be bothered agin to-night. Take me advice and go to sleep, which the same is what I shall do mesilf as soon as I finishes me smoke."

The shock, however, had been too great for all to compose their nerves at once. Jeff was the first to succumb, having faith in the assurance of his friend, and Ike Hardman soon followed him in the land of dreams. Frank and Roswell lay for a long time talking in low tones, but finally drowsiness overcame them, and with the pungent odor of Tim's pipe in their nostrils they sank into slumber, which was not broken until Jeff called to them that breakfast was waiting.

The melted snow furnished what water they needed to drink and in which to lave their faces and hands. Then, before eating, they hurried outside the tent to survey the snowy mountain that had