I wonder where he is?” said Ruth, pausing in her work. “He’ve been gone more’n an hour, sure.”
“Leave un bide where he is so long as he likes,” said he. “Sure he must be havin’ a bit o’ sport. ’Twill do un good.”
Ezekiel sat down by the fire and dozed. From time to time he went to the door to watch the weather. From time to time Aunt Ruth listened for the footfalls of Bagg coming up the path. After a long time she put her work away. The moon was shining through a mist; so she sat at the window, for from there she could see the boy when he rounded the turn to the path. She wished he would come home.
“I’ll go down t’ Topsail’s t’ see what’s t’ be done about the seals,” said Ezekiel.
“Keep a lookout for the b’y,” said she.
Ezekiel was back in half an hour. “Topsail’s gone t’ bed,” said he. “Sure, no one’s goin’ out the night. The wind’s hauled round t’ the west, an’ ’twill blow a gale afore mornin’. The ice is movin’ out slow a’ready. Be that lad out yet?”
“Yes, b’y,” said Ruth, anxiously. “I wisht he’d come home.”
“I–I–wisht he would,” said Ezekiel.
Ruth went to the door and called Bagg by name.
But there was no answer.
Offshore, four miles offshore, Bagg was footing it for England as fast as his skinny little legs would carry him. The way was hard–a winding, uneven path over the pack. It led round clumpers, over ridges which were hard to scale, and across broad, slippery pans. The frost had glued every fragment to its neighbour; for the moment the pack formed one solid mass, continuous and at rest, but the connection between its parts was of the slenderest, needing only a change of the wind or the ground swell of the sea to break it everywhere.
The moon was up. It was half obscured by a haze which was driving out from the shore, to which quarter the wind had now fairly veered. The wind was rising–coming in gusts, in which, soon, flakes of snow appeared. But there was light enough to keep to the general direction out from the coast, and the wind but helped Bagg along.
“I got t’ ’urry up,” thought he.
The boy looked behind. Ruddy Cove was within sight. He was surprised that the coast was still so near.
“Got t’ ’urry up a bit more,” he determined.
He was elated–highly elated. He thought that his old home was but a night’s journey distant; at most, not more than a night and a day, and he had more than food enough in his pockets to last through that. He was elated; but from time to time a certain regret entered in, and it was not easily cast out. He remembered the touch of Aunt Ruth’s lips, and her arm, which had often stolen about him in the dusk; and he remembered that Uncle Ezekiel had beamed upon him most affectionately, in times of mischief and good works alike. He had been well loved in Ruddy Cove.
“Wisht I’d told Aunt Ruth,” Bagg thought.
On he trudged–straight out to sea.
“Got t’ ’urry up,” thought he.
Again the affection of Aunt Ruth occurred to him. She had been very kind; and as for Uncle ’Zeke–why, nobody could have been kinder.
“Wisht I ’ad told Aunt Ruth,” Bagg regretted. “Might o’ said good-bye anyhow.”
The ice was now drifting out; but the wind had not yet risen to that measure of strength wherewith it tears the pack to pieces, nor had the sea attacked it. There was a gap of two hundred yards between the coast rocks and the edge of the ice, but that was far, far back, and hidden from sight. The pack was drifting slowly, smoothly, still in one compact mass. Its motion was not felt by Bagg, who pressed steadily on toward England, eager again, but fast growing weary.
“Got t’ ’urry up,” thought he.
But presently he must rest; and while he rested the wind gathered strength. It went singing over the pack, pressing ever with a stronger hand upon its dumpers and ridges–pushing it, everywhere, faster and faster out to sea. The pack was on the point of breaking in pieces under the strain, but the wind still fell short of the power to rend it. There was a greater volume of snow falling; it was driven past in thin, swirling clouds. Hence the light of the moon began to fail. Far away, at the rim of the pack, the sea was eating its way in, but the swish and crash of its work was too far distant to be heard.
“I ain’t nothink t’ nobody but Aunt Ruth,” Bagg thought, as he rose to continue the tramp.
On he went, the wind lending him wings; but at last his legs gave out at the knees, and he sat down again to rest. This was in the lee of a clumper, where he was comfortably sheltered. He was still warm–in a glow of heat, indeed–and his hope was still with him. So far he had suffered from nothing save weariness. So he began to dream of what he would do when he got home, just as all men do when they come near, once again, to that old place where they were born. The wind was now a gale, blowing furiously; the pack was groaning in its outlying parts.
“Nothink t’ nobody,” Bagg grumbled, on his way once more.
Then he stopped dead–in terror. He had heard the breaking of an ice-pan–a great clap and rumble, vanishing in the distance. The noise was repeated, all roundabout–bursting from everywhere, rising to a fearful volume: near at hand, a cracking; far off, a continuing roar. The pack was breaking up. Each separate part was torn from another, and the noise of the rending was great. Each part ground against its neighbour on every side. The weaker pans were crushed like egg-shells. Then the whole began to feel the heave of the sea.
“It’s a earthquake!” thought Bagg. “I better ’urry up.”
He looked back over the way he had come–searching the shadows for Ruddy Cove. But the coast was lost to sight.
“Must be near acrost, now,” he thought. “I’ll ’urry up.”
So he turned his back on Ruddy Cove and ran straight out to sea, for he thought that England was nearer than the coast he had left. He was now upon a pan, both broad and thick–stout enough to withstand the pressure of the pack. It was a wide field of ice, which the cold of the far North, acting through many years, it may be, had made strong. Elsewhere the pans were breaking–were lifting themselves out of the press and falling back in pieces–were being ground to finest fragments. This mighty confusion of noise and wind and snow and night, and the upheaval of the whole world roundabout, made the soul of Bagg shiver within him. It surpassed the terrors of his dreams.
“Guess I never will get ’ome,” thought he.
Soon he came to the edge of the pan. Beyond, where the pack was in smaller blocks, the sea was swelling beneath it. The ice was all heaving and swaying. He dared not venture out upon this shifting ground. So he ran up and down, seeking a path onward; but he discovered none. Meantime, the parts of the pack had fallen into easier positions; the noise of crunching, as the one ground against the other, had somewhat abated. The ice continued its course outward, under the driving force of the wind, but the pressure was relieved. The pans fell away from one another. Lakes and lanes of water opened up. The pan upon which Bagg chanced to find himself in the great break-up soon floated free. There was now no escape from it.
Bagg retreated from the edge, for the seas began to break there.
“Wisht
