A steady and gradually strengthening breeze was blowing from the North. The boys, wet to the skin, huddled close together on the center of the drifting ice pan and in the lee of the boat. Presently Paul, less inured to cold and exposure than Dan, began to shiver, and Dan suggested:

“Get in your sleepin’ bag. ’Tis rare cold, an’ you shakes like un had th’ ague.”

“No, I’d be afraid to lie down,” objected Paul, “but maybe we could wrap a pair of the blankets around us. There are three pairs in my bag.”

“Now maybe we could be doin’ that,” said Dan. “I’ll get un.”

He felt in the dark among the things which had been piled together, and presently drew the inner pair of blankets from the bag. This they wrapped around their shoulders, drawing it close about them, with a camp bag for their seat and the boat at their back.

“Is there no help for us—no hope that the ship’s boat will pick us up in the morning?” asked Paul.

“I’m not sayin’ that,” comforted Dan. “Th’ ship’ll sure cruise t’ th’ s’uthard with daylight, an’ if th’ fog clears she’ll be findin’ us, an’ th’ ice holds together.”

“Do you think the ice will hold together until morning?”

“I’m hopin’ so. An’ with light I’ll be tryin’ my hand at fixin’ th’ boat, an’ I’m thinkin’ we may fix un.”

They were quiet for a long while, when Dan asked, softly:

“Sleepin’?”

“No.”

“Cold?”

“Freezing.”

“Snuggle closter.”

Paul drew very close to Dan, who drew the blanket tighter.

“Warmer?”

“Yes, that’s better.”

“Ain’t so scairt?”

“No—I don’t know—I’m getting used to it, I guess.”

“Yes, we’ll be gettin’ used to un before day, an’ then we’ll be doin’ somethin’. Dad says always keep un nerve an’ be plucky, an’ th’ worst fixes can be got out of someway.”

“This is a pretty bad fix, though. Guess your dad was never in a fix like this.”

“Oh, yes, he were. Dad were on th’ old Narwhal when she were nipped, an’ twelve of her crew were lost. He were adrift on th’ ice for a week before he were picked up. An’ he’s been on four vessels as were wrecked. Dad’s been in some wonderful bad places, but he always gets out of un for he always keeps his nerve—an’ when they ain’t nothin’ he can do for hisself, he prays. Dad’s a wonderful religious man.”

“Can you pray?”

“Oh, yes; I been prayin’ quiet to myself, settin’ here. Can you?”

“I know the Lord’s Prayer. Mother taught me to say it when I was little.”

“Say un to yourself. ’Twill do good.”

Another long silence, and Dan asked:

“Been prayin’?”

“It won’t do any good; I’m sure it won’t. I said it once but it don’t seem to belong to this fix.”

“’Twill help us if we prays the best we can. Dad says: ‘Do everything you sets your hand to the best un knows how; if ’tis workin’, work the best un can; if ’tis prayin’, pray the best un can.’”

“Oh, Dan, if I’d only stopped fishing when you called me! If I’d only gone back to the ship then, we’d have been all right! Oh, why didn’t I go! Why didn’t I go!”

“Maybe the Lord were plannin’ to have us go adrift, and He were keepin’ you fishin’. Dad says sometimes th’ Lord does such things to try folks out an’ see what they’ll be doin’ for theirselves.”

“No, Dan, it was my fault. Oh, why didn’t I go when you called me! Now we’ll both be drowned, and it’s all my fault.”

“Don’t be feelin’ so bad about un, Paul,” Dan soothed. “While they’s life they’s a chanst. Dad’s always sayin’ that, an’ he says, ‘If you ever gets in a tight fix, lad, do all you can to get out of un, an’ when they ain’t nothin’ more you can do, an’ you’re sartin’ they ain’t, then pray to th’ Lord, an’ leave un to He. But,’ says Dad, ‘don’t waste no time prayin’ an’ askin’ th’ Lord’s help when they’s anythin’ you can do yourself. He won’t pull you out of no scrape when you ain’t doin’ th’ things He’s laid out for you to do first.’”

“But what can we do?”

“Nothin’ but pray now. We hollered an’ fired th’ guns. I been tryin’ to think of everythin’, an’ they ain’t nothin’ else I can think of till ’tis light enough to see, an’ then maybe we’ll be findin’ a way to fix th’ boat; an’ maybe if we prays th’ Lord’ll show us a way to do un.”

The lads again lapsed into silence, to be broken finally by Paul.

“Dan?”

“Yes.”

“Isn’t it most morning?”

“’Tis a long while till mornin’ yet. I’m thinkin’ ’tis about two bells.”

“One o’clock?”

“Yes. I’ll strike a match, an’ you looks at your watch.”

The flash of the match disclosed the hour as ten minutes past twelve.

“Time goes wonderful slow.”

“Yes. I thought it was almost morning.”

“Were you sleepin’?”

“No.”

Another silence, and Dan remarked:

“You got a wonderful lot o’ ca’tridges in your bag. What you bringin’ so many for?”

“They’re what Mr. Remington gave me.”

“Wonderful lot of un. More ’n you’ll need in a year.”

They settled down again, and when Dan looked up a faint light was showing through the fog blanket. He stirred and Paul awoke.

“We been sleepin’, Paul, an’ day’ll soon be breakin’.”

“Where are we?” asked Paul, rubbing his eyes.

“Cruisin’ to th’ s’uthard on a bit of ice in Hudson Bay,” answered Dan, adding facetiously: “We ain’t got no log, an’ I’ve lost th’ reckonin’.”

“Oh!” exclaimed Paul, sitting up and looking around him. “I remember now! I was dreaming of home, and when I woke up I thought we were in camp. My, but I’m stiff and cold.”

“’Tis a kind of camp, but not a shore camp.”

As daylight grew the outlook appeared more dismal than ever. The fog if possible was more dense than the evening before, and while the boys slept a corner of the pan had broken off.

“Do you think we can mend the boat?” asked Paul.

“’Tis too dark yet,” answered Dan, “but we’ll be tryin’ soon as we can see.”

“I’m hungry. I haven’t eaten a thing since twelve o’clock yesterday.”

“So is I hungry, an’ we’ll be eatin’ while we can’t do nothin’ else.”

An investigation of the provision box disclosed a can of corned beef, three cans of baked beans, a small piece of bacon, a dozen ship’s biscuits, a few pounds of flour and some tea, left over from their fishing trip.

“We’ll open one of the cans of beans, and each have a biscuit,” suggested Dan, “but they ain’t nothin’ to drink.”

“That’s so; we can’t make tea without a fire.”

“No, an’ the water’s salt.”

“We’re up against it good and hard. Now you speak of water, I’m famishing for a drink,” said Paul as he ate.

“Th’ ice is sweet, an’ after you eats I’ll chip a cupful of un, an’ if you holds un under your jacket she’ll melt.”

“I never would have thought of that. These beans are mighty good. Let’s have another can. I’m not half satisfied.”

“No, we got to be careful of un. They’s no tellin’ how long ’t will be before we gets picked up, an’ we got to be careful of the grub.”

“I’m fearfully hungry, but I guess you’re right.”

“Yes, I knows I is. Dad’s often sayin’ to me, ‘Dan, if you ever gets in a tight place, an’ not much grub in sight, be wonderful careful of what you has, and make un last.’”

It was full light now. Dan chipped some ice with the axe, filled a cup, and Paul held it carefully beneath his jacket.

An examination of the boat was not reassuring. The forward planks on the port side were stove far in, and an attempt to repair the damage, even temporarily, appeared at first a hopeless task.

“I’m not seein’ just how to mend un,” remarked Dan, contemplating the damaged planks, “but Dad, he says to me, ‘Always try. Do un best. What looks like a hard job is very like to be an easy one in the end.’ He says to me, ‘Do all un can, anyhow, howsoever hard the job looks. The Lord may have you marked up to live to sixty or seventy year,’ says he, ‘and to die in bed, but if you gets in a tight place, and they’s somethin’ you might be doin’ to get out of un if you tries, and you lets un go without tryin’ because you’re not seein’ how to do un at first, the Lord’ll be sayin’ to the recordin’ angel, just change that feller’s markin’, and put he down to die now, and make un drownin’. Dad says the Lord’ll just be thinkin’ ’tain’t no use keepin’ a feller around the world what don’t care enough about livin’ to do what he can to save hisself, but leaves it all to the Lord to do.’”

Encouraged by this philosophy of his father’s, Dan worked with a will, and at the end of an hour succeeded in forcing the stove-in planking back into place.

In the meantime Paul’s ice had melted, and, refreshed by a half cup of slightly brackish water, he turned his attention to Dan’s success with the boat.

“Won’t that go all right without leaking much?” he asked.

“No, ’twill leak like a sieve,” answered Dan, surveying the boat. “I were seein’ that much to do from the first, but I weren’t seein’ how to make the planks hold where I put un, or how to make un tight, and I’m not seein’ ’t yet. Now if we had some bits of board and some nails, I’m thinkin’ we might make un tight.”

“There’s the grub box. Couldn’t we knock that to pieces, and use the boards and nails in it?”

“The grub box! Well there! And I never were thinkin’ of un!”

Dan soon had the box in pieces and the nails removed.

“I’m wonderful slow to think of things sometimes,” remarked he as he worked. “Now why weren’t I thinkin’ of this box first off?”

Cleats were fashioned by Dan from the pieces of box, with the axe as his one working tool, and he was finally ready to nail them in position, where they would hold the broken planks in place. Nails were few, and it was necessary that great economy be practiced in their use and that each be driven where it would do the most good.

The swell was increasing, the north wind was rising, and with every hour the position of the boys was becoming more dangerous. The first cleat had scarcely been nailed down when a wave broke over the pan, washing its whole surface, not deep enough to carry the things away, but suggesting the possibility that another one might presently do so. Dan had fortunately put his cleats in the boat as he made them, or the wave would certainly have carried off the light pieces of wood.

“Paul, you be loadin’ the things in the boat,” said Dan, “while I does th’ mendin’. Th’ next swell breakin’ over th’ pan may carry th’ bags overboard. Load th’ light bags first.”

Paul obeyed, and when the next wave, a little heavier than the first, broke over the pan the outfit was out of its reach.

It was well past noon when the last cleat was placed, and Dan began to caulk with strips torn from a shirt, using as his tool a wedge made from a piece of the box.

The caulking was not yet half done when the boys were startled by a loud report, like that of a gun.

“There she goes!” exclaimed Dan. “I were lookin’ for un! Th’ pan’s busted!”

And sure enough, fully a third of their pan had broken loose from the main body of ice which held them.

Heavier swells, now and again moving the boat slightly, swept the pan. Dan worked desperately at his caulking; Paul, sitting in the boat clinging to his seat, was expecting every moment to be washed from the ice. As he looked out into the fog and beheld the growing anger of the sea his apprehension grew. He realized fully their imminent peril, and he began to doubt the ability of the frail boat, even had it been free from damage, to weather the high piling waves.

All at once he thought he saw something in the distance, a faint splotch in the fog, and he called out:

“Dan! Dan! See there! What is that?”

Dan raised his eyes from his work and looked.

“Land! ’Tis th’ land!” he exclaimed. “’Tis th’ land and we’ll soon be ashore.”

The tide was carrying them in, and more and more distinct a rocky outline of coast loomed up. Dan did not stop his repairs, however, and presently the task of caulking was finished.

“There,” said he, “she’s caulked, an’ she’ll do to take us ashore.”

“Can’t we float her now and land?” asked Paul, in feverish excitement.

“That’s a p’int of land,” said Dan, “We’re driftin’ in around un, and I’m thinkin’ th’ tide’ll carry us to the lee, an’ we’ll have less sea to launch in, if we waits a bit.”

“Oh, but I want to get ashore!” exclaimed Paul. “Couldn’t we launch off here?”

“We might and we mightn’t,” answered Dan cautiously. “We can’t move th’ boat without unloadin’ she. If we launches on the lee, th’ ice’ll be likely to ram in, an’ smash un ag’in, before we gets free, an’ if we tries to launch on ary other side th’ waves’ll be smashin’ un ag’in’ th’ ice before we gets th’ outfit aboard. And anyway, if we unloads th’ outfit on th’ ice th’ sea’s like to work un overboard before we gets th’ boat launched. I’m thinkin’ we’d better tarry a bit.”

Dan’s surmise proved correct. The ice slowly swept past the point, and, carried upon the bosom of a rising tide, they gradually passed into a bay, and calmer water.

“Now,” announced Dan, who had been watching his opportunity, “we’ll try un.”

The things were taken out of the boat, the boat pushed off and alongside the pan and easily reloaded in the now gentle swell, and the boys with their outfit aboard shoved out into the bay.

The one remaining oar Dan took astern, dropped it between two pegs placed there for the purpose, and working the oar adeptly back and forth both propelled and steered the boat shoreward. The damaged bow was found to be so well repaired that it leaked very little, and in a few minutes a safe landing was made upon a sloping, gravelly bit of beach.

For several minutes the boys stood silent, looking toward the fog-enshrouded sea from which they had just been delivered. Dan at length broke silence:

“Thank the Lord, we’re safe ashore,” said he reverently.

“Yes, it’s almost too good to believe.” Tears of joy stood in Paul’s eyes as he spoke. “When the ship finds us and picks us up, Dan, I’m going to tell Captain Bluntt that it was all my fault we didn’t go aboard when he told us to, and I’m going to tell everybody how you saved our lives by mending the boat. We never could have got off the ice if you hadn’t mended the boat.”

“’Twere nothin’ to mend th’ boat,” deprecated Dan.

“Oh, yes, it was,” insisted Paul. “There aren’t many could have done it, and when the ship picks us up I’ll tell them all about it.”

But they were not to see the North Star again, and they were not to be picked up. They were destined to face the rigors of a sub-Arctic winter in the unknown wilderness upon whose shores they had drifted.