"'T was two o'clock."

Dan was patient for fifteen minutes longer, while Paul fished.

"We can't tarry, Paul. We _must_ be goin'."

"Now don't nag."

"'T is no naggin'. Th' skipper'll be wonderful angry."

"Oh, I don't think he'll mind if we're not there exactly at two."

It was half past two when Dan finally said:

"An' now we're goin'," with a tone of finality that angered Paul.

"Oh, are we?" Paul was unhooking a trout.

"Th' sky looks nasty to me, an' th' wind's breezin' up, an' there's a fog settlin' below."

"I don't see any fog, and the sky looks all right to me."

"Comin'?"

"No."

"But you is."

"You ain't my master. I guess I'll do as I please."

"You is _comin'_."

Dan had stepped close to Paul, who was preparing to make another cast.

"When I get ready."

"You is comin' _now_," and Dan took Paul forcibly by the arm.

"Let go of me!"

"You is comin'," and he tightened his grip.

"Take that!" Paul slapped Dan square in the face with open palm.

Then a whirlwind seemed to strike Paul, and before he knew what had taken place he found himself on the ground, and Dan on top of him.

"Is you comin'?"

"Yes! Let me up!" Paul was half crying with anger.

"You'll be sorry for this!" he exclaimed when he was free, but he followed Dan sulkily down to the boat.

Dan was right. A fog was settling below. Even then it was pushing its way up the river, and before they reached the open sea it had swallowed up the river bank, which had become quite invisible beyond the river's mouth. The boys could scarcely see two boat's lengths ahead. The murky cloud enveloped sea, land, everything. Ice pans seemed much more numerous than when they went ash.o.r.e. Now and again a pan would loom up in the fog, ominously near, rising and sinking with the swell. It was uncanny, and Paul became frightened. Dan pulled steadily at the oars for some time. At length he paused.

"We should have been comin' on she," said he. "I'm fearin' we're a bit too far t' th' s'uthard."

He shifted his course somewhat. A moment later a huge bulk of ice appeared directly in front of them. Dan swerved the boat to port, but he was too late, and almost before they realized their danger the pan struck them with the rising swell, and nearly capsized the boat. Water at once poured in through a great rent in the starboard bow, and immediately it became apparent they were sinking.

Like a flash, painter in hand, Dan sprang upon the ice pan.

"Jump! Quick!" he shouted to Paul, who, without knowing how he did it, sprang to the pan, slipped, gained his feet, and was safe upon the ice.

"Take this! Hold on tight!" commanded Dan, pa.s.sing the painter to Paul. Working like mad, while Paul steadied the boat, Dan transferred their belongings from boat to pan, save one sleeping bag and one oar, which were washed away in spite of him. The boat lightened of its burdens, he baled the water out, and drew its bow around to the ice.

"Now pull!" He had grabbed the bow of the boat. "Pull! Pull!" he encouraged, and their united strength drew the boat upon the pan.

Paul had not, until then, had an opportunity to appreciate their position. Now he looked about him, and with one glance took in the critical situation in which they were placed. The pan of ice was not over sixty feet in diameter, waves were breaking over its edges, they were out of reach of land, the boat was quite useless. Then came a flash of the imagination--lost in the dark water--struggling--drowning. All this he saw in an instant. Panic seized him--a wild, awful fear of impending death--and he screamed:

"Help! Help! Save us! Save us! We're lost! Help! Help! Help!"

"That's right," said Dan, "holler. If the ship ain't too far off they'll hear," and he joined his voice to Paul's. But no answering call came out of the fog. At length Dan said:

"Tide's risin', wind's n'uthard, an' our drift's strong t' th'

s'uthard. They ain't hearin'. Get your rifle, an' I finds cartridges.

We'll be shootin' signals."

The outfit hastily thrown in a heap was pulled over by Dan. Paul was too excited and nervous to remember in which of his two bags the ammunition was packed, and Dan could not find the cartridges for his own carbine. Finally, after unpacking both bags, Dan discovered not only Paul's cartridges but his own, which Paul had inadvertently thrown in one of his bags the previous day.

Paul's rifle was quickly loaded, Dan fired, and they listened intently. No response came, and he fired again and again, until presently the welcome sound of a distant rifle shot came faintly out of the fog. Their hopes rose, but the distant shots in response to their own grew fainter and fainter, and at length could no longer be heard.

Dan finally laid down the rifle, with the remark:

"They ain't no use shootin' any more. Th' wind's comin' down from th'

ship, an' if we can't hear they, sure no one will be hearin' us. Th'

skipper's not knowin' we been wrecked, an' he'll not be sendin' a boat. He'll be thinkin' we'll pull for th' ship with the shootin' t'

guide us. 'T ain't no use."

Paul's hope of rescue, which had become a certainty when he heard the shots, now gave place to despair, and he threw himself upon the ice, moaning:

"We're lost! Oh, we're lost! We're lost!"

"Keep un nerve," soothed Dan. "They ain't no knowin' what'll happen.

Dad tells un, 'When you gets in a bad place, Dan, keep un nerve. More folks,' says he, 'dies from losin' they nerve than dies from most anything else. Whilst they's life they's a chanst,' says he."

[Ill.u.s.tration: "Keep un nerve," soothed Dan]

Finally Dan's philosophy quieted Paul to some extent. Black darkness settled upon the sea. The fog, if possible, grew denser. It obscured the stars--everything, even the lapping waves which were steadily but surely eating away the edges of the ice pan.