Paul and Dan surveyed their surroundings. So far as they could discover, in the dense fog, which enshrouded land as well as sea, they were stranded upon a desolate, verdureless coast. Behind them rose a ledge of storm-scoured rocks which reached out into the sea in a rugged cliff to the eastward, and formed the point they had rounded to enter the bight. And out on the rocky point they could hear the breakers in dismal, rhythmic succession, pounding upon the rocks.

The sounding breakers made Paul shudder as he realized how narrowly he and Dan had escaped a fate of which he scarcely dared think. He was profoundly thankful for their deliverance, and rugged as their coast was he had no thought of complaint against the fate that had placed him upon it.

Nowhere was there a tree or even a bush to be seen. Even the moss that here and there found lodgment in crevasses of the rocks seemed to struggle for an uncertain existence. Some driftwood, however, strewn along the beach, offered fuel for their tent stove.

“’Tis a wonderful bleak place,” said Dan, “but I’m thinkin’ ’tis better inside, with timber growin’ an’ maybe a river comin’ in, t’ bring this drift down.”

“But it’s too late to go up there tonight,” protested Paul, dreading to venture upon the fog-covered water again, even in the boat.

“Aye, ’tis too late to go t’night. ’Tis already growin’ dusk, an’ I’m not thinkin’ t’ cruise around in th’ fog, on land or on water. ’Twould be temptin’ th’ Lord t’ send us adrift ag’in, after settin’ us safe ashore.”

“We’re both wet to the skin, and I’m freezing. Can’t we make a fire?” suggested Paul, his teeth chattering.

“We’ll be settin’ up th’ tent in th’ lee o’ this rock. ’Tis lucky we has th’ jointed tent poles, with nary a tree about.”

“Can’t I help?” asked Paul, as Dan jointed the poles and unrolled the tent.

“You might be carryin’ up th’ outfit, an’ we gets th’ tent up, we’ll put un inside. ’Twill warm you up t’ be carryin’ un.”

In fifteen minutes the tent was up, the tent stove in place, and Dan was cutting driftwood for a fire while Paul stowed away their belongings, and in another fifteen minutes a fire was roaring in the stove.

“Oh, but this is cozy,” exclaimed Paul, reclining close to the stove, “and now I’m ravenously hungry again.”

“’Tis wonderful cozy in th’ tent,” agreed Dan. “I’ll take th’ kettle an’ look for water, an’ when I comes back we’ll boil th’ kettle an’ have a snack.”

Almost immediately Dan was back with his kettle of water.

“They’s a spring just up here, an’ we’re lucky t’ have un so clost,” he remarked, setting the kettle on the stove. “I’m thinkin’ we’re in for a blow, an’ we’ll not be gettin’ away from here till she’s over.”

“Don’t you think the ship will come tomorrow if the fog clears?” asked Paul anxiously.

“No,” replied Dan discouragingly, searching for the bacon. “Let’s put on a light; they’s some candles left.” He found the candles, lighted one, and discovered the bacon. “I’m not expectin’ th’ ship in th’ blow that’s comin’. ’Tis a dangerous coast,” he continued, as he sliced the bacon, “an’ th’ skipper’ll be takin’ no chances cruisin’ inshore in a gale.”

“Well, we’re safe enough, and the tent is as cozy a place as I ever struck,” said Paul, now thoroughly warm, and basking in the stove’s genial heat, his wet clothes sending forth a cloud of steam.

“’Twill be fine so long as th’ grub lasts. But they’s no tellin’ how long we’ll be held up, an’ they ain’t much grub. But maybe we can kill somethin.’ I’ll take a look at th’ country, an’ th’ fog clears tomorrow.”

“I should think we’d find plenty of game. We’ve seen ducks and ptarmigans everywhere we’ve been. Oh,” sniffing, “but that bacon smells dandy.”

“Yes, I’m thinkin’ we’ll find ducks an’ pa’tridges, but they’s no knowin’, an’ we’ll be wonderful careful o’ th’ grub we’s got till we finds out. Dad says always be careful of what you has till you sees more comin’.”

The kettle had boiled and Dan threw some tea into it and set it on the ground close to the stove, then he put half of the bacon he had fried on Paul’s aluminum plate, the other half on his own plate, carefully dividing the bacon grease between them, gave Paul two ship’s biscuits, took two for himself, and filled their aluminum cups with tea.

“Now we can fall to,” he said. “They’s plenty o’ tea, but we can’t be eatin’ more’n this much grub to onct, an’ we’ll not be havin’ more’n one biscuit apiece at a meal after this. I’m givin’ us two now for we been a rare long time without eatin’.”

“It looks like a mighty little, with my appetite, but I guess you’re right about it,” admitted Paul.

“Hear that!”

“What?”

“Th’ wind. I knew she’d be comin’ up. Th’ fog’ll be blowin’ away by midnight.”

“That’ll be good.”

“If she don’t blow too strong an’ too long.”

“But this bacon grease is great!” exclaimed Paul, taking a spoonful of the warm grease. “Funny I like it, though. When I’m home I can’t bear to eat fat.”

“Grease is fine grub for cruisin’, an’ when th’ weather’s cold. When Dad an’ me goes trappin’ winters we just takes fat pork an’ flour an’ tea an’ molasses.”

“It does make a difference, I guess. I was just thinking that I’d never in my life eaten anything so good as this bacon and hardtack. If I was home I wouldn’t look at them. I’ll never find fault again if my meat’s a little too rare or too done, or not just what I happen to like best.”

“Dad says anythin’s good when a feller’s hungry.”

It was a meager supper, indeed. A bit of bacon, two ship’s biscuits and tea could hardly satisfy the appetite of a boy who had eaten but once in thirty hours, and then but lightly.

“I’m hungrier than ever!” declared Paul, when he had eaten the last morsel of his portion.

“So am I. ’Tweren’t much,” admitted Dan, as he drew his harmonica from his pocket, wiped it on his coat sleeve, and struck up a tune.

But with relaxation from the long hours of anxiety and exposure which had preceded Dan soon found himself too drowsy to play. Paul was nodding in a brave attempt to keep awake. Dan put the harmonica aside, they made their bed and were soon in heavy slumber, not to awaken until broad daylight.

The wind had risen to almost the force of a hurricane, and upon looking out of the tent they beheld the waters of Hudson Bay beaten into a wild fury. Mighty foam-crested waves were rolling in upon the rocky point below, breaking with a continuous thunderous roar. The fog had passed, and black, broken clouds scudded the sky.

“She’s wonderful mad because she didn’t get us,” remarked Dan.

“My! But weren’t we lucky to drift in last night!” said Paul, shuddering at the scene.

“’Tweren’t luck,” corrected Dan. “Th’ Lord were sendin’ us in ahead o’ th’ blow.[Pg 117]
[Pg 118] Dad says ’tain’t luck, but th’ Lord, as helps folks out o’ bad places.”

After an unsatisfactory breakfast of beans, Dan shouldered his rifle, cautioned Paul not to go out of sight of the tent, and started out to explore and hunt. Late in the afternoon he returned with a big gray goose and a rabbit. Paul, who was in the tent, sprang up when Dan pulled back the flap and looked in.

“Oh, but I’m glad to see you, Dan!” he exclaimed. “I never was so dead lonesome in my life!”

“’Tis a bit lonesome bidin’ alone in camp,” admitted Dan, “but see now what I’m gettin’,” and he dropped his game at Paul’s feet.

“A goose and a rabbit! Oh, Dan, what luck! Now we can have a feast, and I’m so hungry I can hardly move.”

“An’ I’m wonderful hungry, too, with th’ long tramp. Now I’ll be dressin’ th’ goose, an’ you puts a kettle o’ water on an’ cuts some wood.”

Paul went at his task with a vim. He wielded the light camp axe very clumsily, for he had never used an axe before; it was, in fact, his first attempt at manual labor. He had, however, a good supply of wood piled up by the time the goose was dressed and in the kettle, and he and Dan sat down to enjoy the appetizing odor of cooking fowl while they chatted.

“Do you know, Dan, we’re having such a dandy time here, I’ll feel almost sorry when the ship comes. This tent is so cozy,” he declared.

“’Tis cozy an’ fine, but I’m thinkin’ we’ll be wantin’ t’ see th’ ship bad enough before we sees her.”

“But she’ll be along tomorrow, won’t she?”

“No, nor th’ next day neither. I were lookin’ t’ th’ n’uthard from th’ rise back here, an’ I sees a wonderful drift o’ ice workin’ up, an’ if th’ blow holds tomorrow, as ’tis sure to hold, there’ll be a pack o’ ice up from th’ n’uthard that the ship’ll never be gettin’ through.”

“What! You don’t mean the ship won’t come at all?”

“I’m not sayin’ that for sure, but it’s how ’tis lookin’ t’ me now.”

“Oh, but Dan, that can’t be! What will we do if we’re not picked up?”

“I’ve been thinkin’ un over, an’ figurin’ un out. Tom were sayin’ they’s tradin’ posts t’ th’ s’uthard, an’ I been figurin’ we’ll have t’ make for un. We’ll have t’ hunt for our grub, but onct we gets t’ th’ posts we’ll be safe.”

“Do you really think we’ll have to do that, and stay here all winter? It would just kill my mother, for she won’t know where I am.”

“I’m just sayin’ what’s like t’ happen, but ’tain’t no way sure. A bit inside I finds a river runnin’ in th’ head o’ this bight, an’ plenty o’ timber. ’Twere near th’ river I kills th’ goose. ’Tain’t such a wonderful bad country.”

This was a possibility that had not occurred to Paul. He had harbored no doubt that the North Star would presently cruise southward along the coast, pick them up, and he would go home in comfort. The bare possibility that they might not be rescued was a shock. All pleasures, all comforts, all hardships and privations are measured by contrast. The tent had seemed very cozy, for unconsciously Paul had compared its warmth and security with the hardships he had experienced on the ice pan. Now the possibility that he might have to spend the winter in a tent in this northern wilderness led him to compare such a condition with the luxurious comforts of his home in New York, and the comparison made him shrink from the hardships that he instinctively attached to tent life in winter in a sub-Arctic wilderness. With the comparison, also, came an overwhelming desire to see his father and mother again.

“Dan, it would kill me to have to spend the winter here. Oh, that would be awful.”

“Not so bad if we finds grub. Th’ grub’s what’s troublin’ me. An’ we’ll be needin’ more clothes when th’ cold weather comes. But we’ll not let un worry us till we has to. Dad says it never does no good t’ worry, for worryin’ don’t help things, an’ it puts a feller in a fix so he ain’t much good t’ help hisself.”

“But I can’t help worrying.”

“Maybe they ain’t nothin’ t’ worry about. Dad says most all th’ things folks worries about is things they’s afeared will happen, but never does happen. Let’s ferget t’ worry now, an’ get at that goose. She must be done, an’ I’m wonderful hungry.”

The present rose paramount. The boiling goose was done, and soon drove from their minds all thought of the future. The water in which it was boiled, well seasoned with salt, made excellent broth, and with no bread or vegetable—for Dan would not draw upon the few biscuits remaining—the two boys, with ravenous and long unsatisfied appetites, ate the whole bird for their dinner.

Full stomachs put them in a pleasanter frame of mind, the tent again assumed a cozy atmosphere, and Paul declared he was having the “bulliest time” of his life.

During the two days and nights that followed there was no abatement in the wind. Dan spent the daylight hours hunting, while Paul remained in the vicinity of camp, making frequent tours to the summit of the rocky hill behind the tent, where he had a wide view of Hudson Bay. With sinking heart he looked out of the tent one morning to find the bight jammed with ice, and upon climbing the hill as usual beheld a solid mass of ice reaching westward from the shore as far as he could see.

At length the wind somewhat diminished in force, though it was not until the fourth morning after their arrival that they arose to find the sun shining brilliantly from a clear sky, and dead calm prevailing. Several inches of snow had fallen during the night and the air was sharp with frost. Their world seemed cold and cheerless indeed.

Dan’s hunting expeditions had resulted in nothing, after the first day. Once he had started a flock of ptarmigans, but in windy weather ptarmigans are very wild, and this flock flew so far that he was unable to discover them again after they had alighted.

This failure to secure game had forced them to cut down their daily ration to a point that left their appetites far from satisfied. Even then they were alarmed to find that, practicing the utmost economy, but one day’s scant provisions remained, when at length the weather cleared.