In due time the balloon-cabin touched the snow and the men swarmed upon it.

They were disappointed in their hope of finding further treasure, but they did find a solitary man. He was a white man and was totally unconscious from a blow on the head.

"Dave, you and Jarvis stay here and see what you can do for the chap,"

said Johnny. "All the rest of you come with me. We've got work ahead of us and a plenty. The Bolshevik band will be here in less than twenty-four hours. We'll have to float our schooner, load the provisions and gold and beat it."

He turned once more to Dave and Jarvis. "If you bring him to consciousness and can manage it, carry him to the ship. Otherwise I'll send two men to help you when we are through loading."

Wild hours of tireless labor followed for the the main gang. To bring the schooner from the bank to the water-channel, a quarter of a mile over the ice, was no mean task. It was at last accomplished. After that, the loading went on rapidly.

Nothing had been seen of Dave and Jarvis when the last case of provisions had been brought aboard.

Johnny chose two of the men and went round the hill to a.s.sist in bringing the injured man to the ship. Imagine his astonishment when, on rounding the curve, he saw that the balloon was gone.

"Gone!" he murmured, dazed at the suddenness of it.

A hasty examination of the surroundings gave them no sign of the missing men.

"Must have broken loose and sailed away with them."

At that instant he caught the gleam of a light on the western sky.

"Camp fire of the Bolsheviki. We can't wait another moment," he muttered.

"And it wouldn't do any good if we did. They're gone."

He turned and led his men back to the ship.

A half hour later the little schooner was pop-popping her way through a narrow channel to open water beyond. She carried, besides her crew and provisions, a hundredweight of gold taken in the last three days from Mine No. 2, and twice as much taken from the robber yellow men. Thirty-five per cent of this would do wonders in Vladivostok. Johnny was sitting and thinking of these things and of a wireless message he had received but a few days before, when he suddenly began wondering where Pant was.

"Say," he exclaimed, turning to one of his men, "where's Pant? Haven't seen him since we put out."

Sure enough, where was he? They searched the ship. He was not to be found.

At last Johnny spied a note pinned to his spare parka. It was written by Pant.

"Dear Johnny," it read, "you will pardon me, I am sure, for leaving your service at this time. But you won't need me down there and Vladivostok sounds too tame. Up here there is real adventure.

"Good-bye, "PANT."

Johnny looked at the man beside him and the man looked at him.

"Queer chap," murmured Johnny. "But a real sport at that."

"No use to try to find him."

"Not a bit."

"Queer chap," Johnny murmured again, "Queer eyes."

"That Pant was just short for Panther Eye," said the miner. "Men gave him the name. One of them claimed he was hunting panthers once with a skillful surgeon. A panther tore his right eye out. The surgeon shot the panther and grafted an eye into Pant's empty socket. The fellow claimed he'd seen him with those yellow goggles off. Said his pupil contracted in the light like a great cat's eye. But you can't believe half those men tell you."

"No, you can't," said Johnny. "I guess every chap has a right to have a secret or two about himself and keep them. Pant had his and kept it.

That's about as far as we'll ever get on that mystery. What say we go to chow?"

CHAPTER IX

STARTLING PERILS

In the harbor at Vladivostok a thirty-ton gasoline schooner threaded its way through narrow channels left by ocean liners and gunboats toward a deserted water-front where half-dismantled warships of ancient Russian design lay rotting in the sun. Straight to a rickety wharf they made their way.

Hardly had they thrown a line over a swaying post when two men sprang across the narrow s.p.a.ce.

"Watch your step!"

It was Johnny Thompson who spoke. The man with him was the young doctor of his outfit.

As they cleared the dock and entered a side street of this metropolis of eastern Russia, they walked with a heavy tread; their step lacked the elasticity that their youthful faces would warrant. They were either very weary or very heavily burdened. No burdens were visible, though something might be concealed beneath their greatcoats. There was, indeed, a bulkiness about their forms from shoulder to waist, but in this Arctic clime, coming as they had from the north, one might easily credit this to sweaters.

As they reached the shadow of a building, Johnny stopped and fumbled in his pocket. At the same time his gaze wandered away toward the north.

"Wonder where Pant is now?" he grumbled. "I miss the little rascal, don't you?"

"Sure do."

"Wonder what made him drop us flat that way?"

"Can't say. Had a reason, though. He always had a reason, and a good one.

There was something he wanted to do."

"Hope he does it quick and gets on down here. He's been part of my bodyguard so long, I confess I don't feel safe in a new place like this without him."

Johnny stopped fumbling in his pocket and drew forth three yellow slips of paper.

"Here's the messages. I wrote 'em all down. Mighty little good they'll do us."

He read them aloud:

"'When can you come across?'"

(Signed) "M."

"'We must produce. At once.'"

(Signed) "M."

"'Am in danger. Come across.'"

(Signed) "M."