The generating machine was put in operation, and soon the big red
bag that hovered over the craft began to fill. Tom was glad to see
that none of the several compartments leaked. The bag had been well
repaired.
Suddenly the RED CLOUD shot up in the air. Up above the towering
snow-covered crags it mounted, and then, with a whizz and a roar,
the propellers were set going.
"Once more northward bound!" cried Tom, as he took his place in the
pilothouse.
"And we'll see if we can beat Andy Foger there," added Ned.
All that morning the RED CLOUD shot ahead at good speed. The craft
had suffered no permanent damage during her fight with the hail
storm, and was as good as ever. They ate dinner high in the air,
while sailing over a great stretch of whiteness, where the snow lay
many feet deep on the level, and where great mountain crags were so
covered with the glistening mantle and a coating of ice as to
resemble the great bergs that float in the polar sea.
"I wouldn't want to be wrecked here," said Ned, with a shudder, as
he looked down. "We'd never get away. Does any one live down there,
Abe?"
"Yes, there are scattered tribes of Indians and Alaskan natives.
They live by hunting and fishing, and travel around by means of dog
sledges. But it's a dreary life.
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