Then he made for the surface with swift, strong strokes. A few more strokes brought him to the edge of the ice. He clambered out, still gasping for breath, and turned about to account to himself for his predicament.

The drift of snow had collapsed; he observed that it had covered some part of a wide hole, and that the exposed water was almost of a colour with the ice beyond—a polished black. Hence, he did not bitterly blame himself for the false step, as he might have done had he plunged himself into obvious danger through carelessness. He did not wonder that he had been deceived.

Her Majesty's mail, so far as the boy could determine, was slowly sinking to the bottom of the bay.

There was no help in regret. To escape from the bitter wind and the dusk, now fast falling, was the present duty. He could think of all the rest when he had leisure to sit before the fire and dream. He took off his jacket and wrung it out—a matter of some difficulty, for it was already stiff with frost. His shirt followed—then his boots and his trousers. Soon he was stripped to his rosy skin. The wind, sweeping in from the open sea, stung him as it whipped past.

When the last garment was wrung out he was shivering, and his teeth were chattering so fast that he could not keep them still. Dusk soon turns to night on this coast, and the night comes early. There was left but time enough to reach the first of the goat-paths at Creepy Bluff, two miles away—not time to finish the overland tramp to Ruddy Cove—before darkness fell.

When he was about to dress, his glance chanced to pass over the water. The mail-bag—it could be nothing else—was floating twenty-yards off the ice. It had been prepared with cork for such accidents, which not infrequently befall it.

"'Tis Her Majesty's mail, b'y," Billy could hear the mailman say.

"But 'tis more than I can carry t' Ruddy Cove now," he thought.

Nevertheless, he made no move to put on his shirt. He continued to look at the mail-bag. "'Tis the mail—gov'ment mail," he thought again. Then, after a rueful look at the water: "Sure, nobody'll know that it floated. 'Tis as much as I can do t' get myself safe t' Gull Cove. I'd freeze on the way t' Ruddy Cove."

There was no comfort in these excuses. There, before him, was the bag. It was in plain sight. It had not sunk. He would fail in his duty to the country if he left it floating there. It was an intolerable thought!

"'Tis t' Ruddy Cove I'll take that bag this day," he muttered.

He let himself gingerly into the water, and struck out. It was bitter cold, but he persevered, with fine courage, until he had his arm safely linked through the strap of the bag. It was the country he served! In some vague form this thought sounded in his mind, repeating itself again and again, while he swam for the ice with the bag in tow.

He drew himself out with much difficulty, hauled the mail-bag after him, and proceeded to dress with all speed. His clothes were frozen stiff, and he had to beat them on the ice to soften them; but the struggle to don them sent the rich blood rushing through his body, and he was warmed to a glow.

On went the bag, and off went the boy. When he came to the firmer ice, and Creepy Bluff was within half a mile, the wind carried this cheery song up the bay:

At Creepy Bluff, which the wind strikes with full force, the ice was breaking up inshore. The gale had risen with the coming of the night. Great seas spent their force beneath the ice—cracking it, breaking it, slowly grinding it to pieces against the rocks.

The Bluff marks the end of the bay. No ice forms beyond. Thus the waves swept in with unbroken power, and were fast reducing the shore cakes to a mass of fragments. Paul was cut off from the shore by thirty yards of heaving ice. No bit of it would bear his weight; nor, so fine had it been ground, could he leap from place to place as he had done before.

"'Tis sprawl I must," he thought.

The passage was no new problem. He had been in such case more than once upon his return from the offshore seal-hunt. Many fragments would together bear him up, where few would sink beneath him. He lay flat on his stomach, and, with the gaff to help support him, crawled out from the solid place, dragging the bag. His body went up and down with the ice. Now an arm was thrust through, again a leg went under water.

Progress was fearfully slow. Inch by inch he gained on the shore—crawling—crawling steadily. All the while he feared that the great pans would drift out and leave the fragments room to disperse. Once he had to spread wide his arms and legs and pause until the ice was packed closer.

"Two yards more—only two yards more!" he could say at last.

Once on the road to Ruddy Cove, which he well knew, his spirits rose; and with a cheery mood came new strength. It was a rough road, up hill and down again, through deep snowdrifts and over slippery rocks. Night fell; but there was light enough to show the way, save in the deeper valleys, and there he had to struggle along as best he might.

Step after step, hill after hill, thicket after thicket: cheerfully he trudged on; for the mail-bag was safe on his back, and Ruddy Cove was but three miles distant. Three was reduced to two, two to one, one to the last hill.

From the crest of Ruddy Rock he could look down on the lights of the harbour—yellow lights, lying in the shadows of the valley. There was a light in the post-office. They were waiting for him there—waiting for their letters—waiting to send the mail on to the north. In a few minutes he could say that Her Majesty's mail had been brought safe to Ruddy Cove.

"Be the mail come?"

Billy looked up from his seat by the roaring fire in the post-office. An old woman had come in. There was a strange light in her eyes—the light of a hope which survives, spite of repeated disappointment.

"Sure, Aunt Esther; 'tis here at last."

"Be there a letter for me?"

Billy hoped that there was. He longed to see those gentle eyes shine—to see the famished look disappear.

"No, Aunt Esther; 'tis not come yet. Maybe 'twill come next——"

"Sure, I've waited these three year," she said, with a trembling lip. "'Tis from me son——"

"Ha!" cried the postmaster. "What's this? 'Tis all blurred by the water. 'Missus E—s—B—l—g—e—l.' Sure, 'tis you, woman. 'Tis a letter for you at last!"

"'Tis from me son!" the old woman muttered eagerly. "'Tis t' tell me where he is, an'—an'—when he's comin' home. Thank God, the mail came safe the night."

What if Billy had left the mail-bag to soak and sink in the waters of the bay? What if he had failed in his duty to the people? How many other such letters might there not be in that bag for the mothers and fathers of the northern ports?

"Thank God," he thought, "that Her Majesty's mail came safe the night!"

Then he went off home, and met Bobby Lot on the way.

"Hello!" said Bobby. "Got back?"

"Hello yourself!" said Billy. "I did."

They eyed each other delightedly; they were too boyish to shake hands.

"How's the ice?" asked Bobby Lot.

"Not bad," said Billy.