approaching. The wind was bitterly cold, and the snow was thick and blinding.
It would not be safe, he knew, to leave the boat in the water, for at any moment the shifting pans might close and crush it. He tried to lift it out of the water, but his strength was not sufficient. He managed to get the bow on the ice; that was all.
"I'll just have to leave it," he thought. "I'll just have to trust that 'twill not be nipped."
Near by there was a hummock of ice. He sought the lee of it, and there, protected from the wind, he sat down to wait.
Often, when the men were spinning yarns in the cottages of Ruddy Cove of a winter night, he had listened, open-mouthed, to the tales of seal-hunters who had been cast away. Now he was himself drifting out to sea. He had no fire, no food, no shelter but a hummock of ice. He had the bitterness of the night to pass through – the hunger of to-morrow to face.
"But sure," he muttered, with characteristic hopefulness, "I've a boat, an' many a man has been cast away without one."
He thought he had better make another effort to haul the boat on the ice. Some movement of the pack might close the arm where it floated. So he stumbled towards the place.
He stared round in amazement and alarm; then he uttered a cry of terror. The open water had disappeared.
"She's been nipped!" he sobbed. "She's been nipped – nipped to splinters! I've lost meself!"
Night came fast. An hour before, so dense was the storm, nothing had been visible sixty paces away; now nothing was to be seen anywhere. Where was the rodney? Had his father and Bill Watt escaped from the floe by some new opening? Were they safe at home? Were they still on the floe? He called their names. The swish of the storm, the cracking and crunching of the ice as the wind swept it on – that was all that he heard.
For a long time he sat in dull despair. He hoped no longer.
By and by, when it was deep night, something occurred to distract him. He caught sight of a crimson glow, flaring and fading. It seemed to be in the sky, now far off, now near at hand. He started up.
"What's that?" he muttered.
CHAPTER IX
In Which Old Tom Topsail Burns His Punt and Billy Wanders in the Night and Three Lives Hang on a Change of the Wind
MEANWHILE, under the powerful strokes of old Tom Topsail and Bill Watt, the rodney had followed the open leads into the heart of the floe. From time to time Watt muttered a warning; but the spirit of the hunt fully possessed Tom, and his only cry was, "Push on! Push on!"
Seal after seal escaped, while the sky darkened. He was only the more determined not to go back empty-handed.
"I tells you," Watt objected, "we'll not get out. There's the wind now. And snow, man – snow!"
The warning was not to be disregarded. Topsail thought no more about seals. The storm was fairly upon them. His only concern was to escape from the floe. He was glad, indeed, that Billy had not followed them. He had that, at least, to be thankful for.
They turned the boat. Bending to the oars, they followed the lane by which they had entered. Confusion came with the wind and the snow. The lay of the pans seemed to have changed. It was changing every moment, as they perceived.
"Tom," gasped Watt, at last, "we're caught! 'Tis a blind lead we're in."
That was true; the lane had closed. They must seek another exit. So they turned the boat and followed the next lane that opened. It, too, was blocked.
They tried another, selected at random. In that blinding storm no choice was possible. Again disappointment; the lane narrowed to a point. They were nearly exhausted now, but they turned instantly to seek another way. That way was not to be found. The lane had closed behind them.
"Trapped!" muttered Watt.
"Aye, lad," Topsail said, solemnly, "trapped!"
They rested on their oars. Ice was on every hand. They stared into each other's eyes.
Then, for the second time, Watt ran his glance over the shores of the lake in which they floated. He started, then pointed in the direction from which they had come. Topsail needed no word of explanation. The ice was closing in. The pressure of the pack beyond would soon obliterate the lake. They rowed desperately for the nearest shore.
The ice was rapidly closing in. In such cases, as they knew, it often closed with a sudden rush at the end, crushing some pan which for a moment had held it in check.
When the boat struck the ice Watt jumped ashore with the painter. Topsail, leaping from seat to seat, followed instantly. At that moment there was a loud crack, like a clap of thunder. It was followed by a crunching noise.
"It's comin'!" screamed Topsail.
"Heave away!"
They caught the bow, lifted it out of the water, and with a united effort slowly hauled it out of harm's way. A moment later there was no sign of open water.
"Thank God!" gasped Topsail.
By this time the storm was a blizzard. The men had no shelter, and they were afraid to venture far from the boat in search of it. Neither would permit the other to stumble over the rough ice, chancing its pitfalls, for neither cared to be lost from the other.
Now they sat silent in the lee of the upturned boat, with the snow swirling about them; again they ran madly back and forth; yet again they swung their arms and stamped their feet. At last, do what they would, they shivered all the time. Then they sat quietly down.
"I'm wonderful glad Billy is safe home," Watt observed.
"I wisht I was sure o' that," said Topsail. "It looks bad for us, Bill, lad. The ice is drivin' out fast, an' I'm thinkin' 'twill blow steady for a day. It looks wonderful bad for us, an' I'd feel – easier in me mind – about the lad's mother – if I knowed he was safe home."
Late in the night Topsail turned to Watt. He had to nudge him to get his attention. "It's awful cold, Bill," he said. "We got the boat, lad. Eh? We got the boat."
"No, no, Tom! Not yet! We'd be sure doomed without the boat."
Half an hour passed. Again Topsail roused Watt.
"We're doomed if we don't," he said. "We can't stand it till mornin', lad. We can't wait no longer."
Watt blundered to his feet. Without a word he fumbled in the snow until he found what he sought. It was the axe. He handed it to Topsail.
"Do it, Tom!" he said, thickly. "I'm near gone."
Topsail attacked the boat. It was like murder, he thought. He struck blow after blow, blindly, viciously; gathered the splinters, made a little heap of them and set them afire. The fire blazed brightly. Soon it was roaring. The ice all around was lighted up. Above, the snow reflected the lurid glow.
Warmth and a cheerful light put life in the men. They crept as close to the fire as they could. Reason would shut out hope altogether, but hope came to them. Might not the storm abate? Might not the wind change? Might not they be picked up? In this strain they talked for a long time; and meanwhile they added the fuel, splinter by splinter.
"Father! 'Tis you!"
Topsail
