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In the lee of the Little Spotted Horse the ice had gathered as in a back current. It was close packed alongshore to the point of the island. Between this solidly frozen press of pans and the dissolving field in Anxious Bight there had been a lane of ruffled open water before the frost fell. It measured perhaps fifty yards. It was now black and still, sheeted with new ice which had been delayed in forming by the ripple of that exposed situation. Doctor Rolfe had encountered nothing as doubtful. He paused on the brink. A long, thin line of solid pan ice, ghostly white in the dusk beyond, was attached to the rocks of the Little Spotted Horse. It led all the way to Tickle-my-Ribs. Doctor Rolfe must make that line of solid ice. He must cross the wide lane of black, delicately frozen new ice that lay between and barred his way.

He waited for the moon. When the light broke–a thin, transient gleam–he started. A few fathoms forth the ice began to yield. A moment later he stopped short and recoiled. There was a hole–gaping wide and almost under his feet. He stopped. The water overflowed and the ice cracked. He must not stand still. To avoid a second hole he twisted violently to the right and almost plunged into a third opening. It seemed the ice was rotten from shore to shore. And it was a long way across. Doctor Rolfe danced a zigzag toward the pan ice under the cliffs, spurting forward and retreating and swerving. He did not pause; had he paused he would have dropped through. When he was within two fathoms of the pan ice a foot broke through and tripped him flat on his face. With his weight thus distributed he was momentarily held up. Water squirted and gurgled out of the break–an inch of water, forming a pool. Doctor Rolfe lay still and expectant in this pool.

* * * * *

Dolly West’s mother still sat by the kitchen fire. It was long past midnight now.

Once more Bad-Weather Tom tiptoed in from the frosty night. “Is she sleepin’ still?” he whispered.

“Hush! She’ve jus’ toppled off again. She’s havin’ a deal o’ pain, Tom. An’ she’ve been bleedin’ again.”

“Put her down on the bed, dear.”

The woman shook her head. “I’m afeared ‘twould start the wounds, Tom. Any sign of un yet, Tom?”

“Not yet.”

“He’ll come soon.”

“No; ’tis not near time. ‘Twill be dawn afore he—-“

“Soon, Tom.”

“He’ll be delayed by snow. The moon’s near gone. ‘Twill be black dark in half an hour. I felt a flake o’ snow as I come in. An’ he’ll maybe wait at Mad Harry—-“

“He’s comin’ by the Bight, Tom.”

Dolly stirred, cried out, awakened with a start, and lifted her bandaged head a little. She did not open her eyes. “Is that you, doctor, sir?”

“Hush!” the mother whispered. “‘Tis not the doctor yet.”

“When—-“

“He’s comin’.”

“I’ll take a look,” said Tom. He went out again and stumbled down the path to Blow-me-Down Dick by Tickle-my-Ribs.

Doctor Rolfe lay still and expectant in the pool of water near the pan ice and rocks of the Little Spotted Horse. He waited. Nothing happened. Presently he ventured delicately to take off a mitten, to extend his hand, to sink his fingernails in the ice and try to draw himself forward. It was a failure. His fingernails were too short. He could merely scratch the ice. He reflected that if he did not concentrate his weight–that if he kept it distributed–he would not break through. And once more he tried to make use of his fingernails. It turned out that the nails of the other hand were longer. Doctor Rolfe managed to gain half an inch before they slipped. They slipped again–and again and again. It was hopeless. Doctor Rolfe lay still, pondering.