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“‘Cap’n Sammy, sir,’ says I, ‘the ship lies badly. She’ll never weather—-‘

“‘Mr. Tumm,’ says he, ‘you got your orders, isn’t you?’

“When Cap’n Sammy fixed his little green squint on me in jus’ that frosty way I knowed my duty. ‘I is, sir,’ says I.

“‘Then,’ says he, ‘h’ist your canvas. There’s another minute gone!’

“By this time the wind was leapin’ out o’ the nor’west. Fog was come down with the gale, too. ‘Twas fallin’ thick weather. Comin’ on dusk, now, too. The big, black tramp, showin’ hazy lights, was changed to a shadow in the mist. The pack had begun t’ heave an’ grind. I could feel the big pans get restless. They was shiftin’ for ease. I could hear un crack. I could hear un crunch. Not much noise yet, though: not much wind yet. But ’twas no fair prospect for the night. Open water–in a shift o’ the ice–was but half a league t’ the nor’west, a bee-line into the gale’s eye. The wind had packed the slob about the ships. It had jammed half a league o’ ice against the body o’ the big pack t’ the sou’east. In the nor’west, too, was another floe. ‘Twas there, in the mist, an’ ’twas comin’ down with the wind. It cotched the first of the gale; ’twas free t’ move, too. ‘Twould overhaul us soon enough. Ever see the ice rafter, sir? No? Well, ’tis no swift collison. ‘Tis horrible an’ slow. No shock at all: jus’ slow pressure. The big pans rear. They break–an’ tumble back. Fields–acres big–slip one atop o’ the other. Hummocks are crunched t’ slush. The big bergs topple over. It always makes me think o’ hell, somehow–the wind, the night, the big white movin’ shapes, the crash an’ thunder of it, the ghostly screeches. An’ the Claymore’s iron plates was doomed; an’ the Royal Bloodhound could escape on’y by good luck or the immediate attention o’ the good God A’mighty.

“Jus’ afore dark I come t’ my senses.

“‘What’s this !’ thinks I.

“I waited.

“‘Wind’s haulin’ round a bit,’ thinks I.

“I waited a spell longer t’ make sure.

“‘Jumpin’ round t’ the s’uth’ard,’ thinks I, ‘by Heavens!’ I made for the skipper’s cabin with the news. ‘Cap’n Sammy, sir,’ says I, ‘the wind’s haulin’ round t’ the s’uth’ard.’

“‘ Wind’s what!‘ Cap’n Sammy yelled.

“‘Goin’ round t’ the s’uth’ard on the jump,’ says I.

“Cap’n Sammy bounced out on deck an’ turned his gray ol’ face t’ the gale. An’ ’twas true: the wind was swingin’ round the compass; every squall that blew was a point off. An’ Cap’n Sammy seed in a flash that they wasn’t no dollar a minute for he if Cap’n Wrath knowed what the change o’ wind meant. For look you, sir! when the wind was from the nor’west, it jammed the slob against the pack behind us, an’ fetched down the floe t’ win’ard; but blowin’ strong from southerly parts, ‘twould not only halt the floe, but ‘twould loosen the pack in which we lay, an’ scatter it in the open water half a league t’ the nor’west. In an hour–if the wind went swingin’ round–the Royal Bloodhound an’ the Claymore would be floatin’ free. An’ round she went, on the jump; an’ she blowed high–an’ higher yet–with every squall.

“I jumped when I cotched sight o’ Cap’n Sammy’s face. ‘Twas ghastly–an’ all in a sour pucker o’ wrinkles. Seemed, too, that his voice had got lost in his throat. ‘Tumm,’ says he, ‘fetch my coon-skin coat. I’m goin’ aboard Cap’n Wrath,’ says he, ‘t’ reason.’

“‘You’ll never do that !’ says I.

“‘I wants my tow,’ says he; ‘an’ Cap’n Wrath is a warm-water sailor, an’ won’t know what this ice will do.’

“‘Skipper Sammy,’ says I, ”tis no fit time for any man t’ be on the ice. The pack’s goin’ abroad in this wind.’