nights, are drear and terrifying when first encountered.
Teddy Brisk was doubtless wanting his mother. Perhaps he sobbed. Yet he had concealed his fear and homesickness from Billy Topsail; and that was stoicism enough for any lad of his years – even a lad of the Labrador. Billy Topsail offered him no comfort. It would have shamed the boy to comfort him openly. Once ashore again Teddy Brisk would want to boast, like his elders, and to spin his yarn:
"Well now, lads, there we was, ecod! 'way out there on the ice, me 'n' Billy Topsail; an' the wind was blowin' a gale from the sou'west, an' the snow was flyin' as thick as ever you seed the snow fly, an' the ice was goin' out t' sea on the jump. An' I says t' Billy: 'I'm goin' t' sleep, Billy – an' be blowed t' what comes of it!' An' so I falled asleep as snug an' warm; an' then – "
Billy Topsail ignored the sob and whimper from the depths of the dogskin robes.
"The lad haves t' be hardened," he reflected.
Dawn was windy. It was still snowing – a frosty mist of snow. Billy Topsail put the dogs in the traces and stowed Teddy Brisk away in the komatik. The dogs were uneasy. Something out of the way? What the mischief was the matter? They came unwillingly. It seemed they must be sensing a predicament. Billy Topsail whipped them to their work and presently they bent well enough to the task.
Snow fell all that day. There were glimpses of Ginger Head. In a rift of the gale Teddy Brisk caught sight of the knob of the Scotchman's Breakfast.
Always, however, the way ashore was barred by open water. When Billy Topsail caught sight of the Scotchman's Breakfast for the last time it was in the southwest. This implied that the floe had got beyond the heads of the bay and was moving into the waste reaches of the open sea. At dusk Billy had circled the pan twice – hoping for chance contact with another pan, to the east, and another, and still another; and thus a path to shore. It was a big pan – a square mile or more as yet. When the pinch came, if the pinch should come, Billy thought, the dogs would not be hampered for room.
Why not kill the dogs? No; not yet. They were another man's dogs. In the morning, if the wind held offshore —
Wind and snow would fail. There would be no harsher weather. Billy Topsail made a little fire with his last billets of birchwood. He boiled the kettle and spread a thick slice of bread with a meager discoloration of molasses for Teddy Brisk. What chiefly interested Teddy Brisk was the attitude of the dogs. It was not obedient. There was swagger in it. A crack of the whip sent them leaping away, to be sure; but they intruded again at once – and mutinously persisted in the intrusion.
Teddy Brisk put out a diffident hand towards Smoke. Smoke was an obsequious brute. Ashore he would have been disgustingly grateful for the caress. Now he would not accept it at all. He snarled and sprang away. It was a defiant breach of discipline. What was the matter with the dogs? They had gone saucy all at once. The devil was in the dogs. Nor would they lie down; they withdrew, at last, in a pack, their hunger discouraged, and wandered restlessly in the failing light near by.
Teddy Brisk could not account for this singular behaviour.
It alarmed him.
"Ah, well," said Billy Topsail, "they're all savage with hunger."
"Could you manage with nine, Billy?"
Billy Topsail laughed.
"With ease, my son," said he, "an' glad of it!"
"Is you strong enough t' kill a dog?"
"I'll find that out, Teddy, when the time comes."
"I was 'lowin' that one dog would feed the others an' keep un mild till we gets ashore."
"I've that selfsame thing in mind."
Teddy said eagerly:
"Kill Cracker, Billy!"
"Cracker! Already? 'Twould be sheer murder."
"Aye, kill un now, Billy – ah, kill un right away now, won't you, b'y? That dog haves a grudge on me. He've been watchin' me all day long."
"Ah, no! Hush now, Teddy!"
"I knows that dog, Billy!"
"Ah, now! The wind'll change afore long. We'll drift ashore – maybe in the mornin'. An then – "
"He've his eye on me, Billy!"
Billy Topsail rose.
"You see my whip anywhere?"
"She's lyin' for'ard o' the komatik."
"She's not."
"She was."
"She've gone, b'y!"
"Ecod! Billy, Cracker haves her!"
It was not yet dark. Cracker was sitting close. It was an attitude of jovial expectation. He was on his haunches – head on one side and tail flapping the snow; and he had the walrus whip in his mouth. Apparently he was in the mood to pursue a playful exploit. When Billy Topsail approached he retreated – a little; and when Billy Topsail rushed he dodged, with ease and increasing delight. When Billy Topsail whistled him up and patted to him, and called "Hyuh! Hyuh!" and flattered him with "Good ol' dog!" he yielded nothing more than a deepened attention to the mischievous pleasure in hand.
Always he was beyond reach – just beyond reach. It was tantalizing.
Billy Topsail lost his temper. This was a blunder. It encouraged the dog. To recover the whip was an imperative precaution; but Billy could not accomplish it in a temper. Cracker was willful and agile and determined; and when he had tired – it seemed – of his taunting game, he whisked away, with the pack in chase, and was lost to sight in the gale. It fell dark then; and presently, far away a dog howled, and there was an answering howl, and a chorus of howls. They were gone for good. It was a mutiny. Billy knew that his authority had departed with the symbol of it.
He did not see the whip again.
CHAPTER VII
In Which a Blazing Club Plays a Salutary Part, Teddy Brisk Declares the Ways of His Mother, and Billy Topsail Looks Forward to a Battle that No Man Could Win
Next night – a starlit time then, and the wind gone flat – Billy Topsail was burning the fragments of the komatik. All day the dogs had roamed the pan. They had not ventured near Billy Topsail's authority – not within reach of Billy's treacherously minded flattery and coaxing. In the exercise of this new freedom they had run wild and fought among themselves like a mutinous pirate crew. Now, however, with night down, they had crept out of its seclusion and were sitting on the edge of the firelight, staring, silent, pondering.
Teddy Brisk was tied up in the wolfskin bag. It was the best refuge for the lad. In the event of a rush he would not be torn in the scuffle; and should the dogs overcome Billy Topsail – which was not yet probable – the little boy would be none the worse off in the bag.
Had the dogs been a pack of wolves Billy would have been in livid fear of them; but these beasts were dogs of his own harbour, which he had commanded at will and beaten at will, and he was awaiting the onset with grim satisfaction. In the end, as he knew, the dogs would have an advantage that could not be resisted; but now – Billy Topsail would "l'arn 'em! Let 'em come!"
Billy's club, torn from the komatik, was
