regular treat. I’ve heard many a one at the singing-gaffs at Liverpool that couldn’t come near him. And dance! I never saw a fellow so smart on his legs. He used to do the Lancashire clog-dance in an old pair of cut-down sea-boots, and you’d hear the clatter in the ice hills like the muskets at a review. I quite loved the fellow,—he did his work so easy—wanted no telling—saw your drift in a minute, and I don’t think he missed the weather-earing once the whole voyage. Jack Sands, he called himself.
“There was another I took with me, ‘Sleepy Sam,’ they called him. I’ve known him to go fast asleep on the look-out, and the ship pitching no small way neither.
“We took a bag with some grub, and our pannikins, in case we should have to spend the night out.
“It was not so mighty cold as you’d think in the daytime, for we were only just inside the winter ice-line, and with a south-wind that would shift to the north’ard past us.
“Just as we were going over the side a lad we had on board wanted to go with us. He was the owner’s son, and had been sent aboard to cure him of a desire to go to sea. There’s as many gets the desire for life that way as gets cured. Captain said he couldn’t go, but he begged so hard that I asked leave for him, and said I’d take care of him; so he came with us three.
“We traced the lane till night, and then got under the cliff, lit a bit of fire with the drift wood, pulled out the coffee and biscuits, and so did pretty well. We laid down round the fire, one keeping watch. I found it precious cold with only the blanket and my pea-jacket; and I was obliged to hug up the youngster, he felt so bad. I don’t know but what both were warmer for it. In the morning we had some more coffee and some pork. It got light enough about eight bells to go on; and when we got into the wind it was dead south, and felt as warm as summer. We got on, and had some dinner, and started again; we could see the water sky ahead, so pushed on. The lane was open nearly all the way; here and there we should have to cut a bit, but not much.
“About two o’clock, we sighted the water itself. There was a good deal of surface-drift to the edge of the pack, but the thaw was going on fast; right ahead there was a biggish berg; so we left ‘Sleepy Sam’ at the bottom, and climbed up,—I, and Sands, and the boy.
“‘Can’t get back to-night if we try for it,’ said Sands. ‘Anyhow we’d best stop, and make a long day of it to-morrow.’
“I thought this was a good plan; so we went down again, expecting to find Sam.
“He was gone—clean gone! not a trace of him anywhere. We shouted and fired our guns, but could hear nothing in return.
“‘Must stay now,’ said the boy; ‘it’s getting dark, and we shan’t do any good stumbling over the hummocks to-night.’
“So we stayed.
“‘Best get up on the berg again,’ said Sands. ‘He’ll stand more chance of seeing us, and we him.’
“We got a few sticks, and lit a fire again; and I said I’d watch for the first spell. Sands and the youngster lay down, and I watched.
“I never rightly knew how it was, but I was waked up by falling right on my face. I crawled up, and found that the berg was adrift from the pack, and had risen at least ten feet higher, and all on one side.
“Sands and the boy woke up as soon as I did, and, says Sands,
“‘She’s adrift, Stevens!’
“He looked awful pale, he did; for we could see it was just morning. True enough she was adrift, and knocking about in the small ice in a way that made us hold on fast to anything to keep our feet.
“She kept slowly drifting to the east’ard along the edge of the pack, breaking it up as she went; so that there was no chance of our getting off it on to the main fast ice to reach the ship.
“About an hour or two after she started, the youngster says to me,
“‘Mr. Stevens,’—
“‘Drop the “Mr.”,’ says I; ‘it don’t sound natural.’
“‘Well, Stevens, then; there’s Sam.’
“True enough, there he was, running along the edge of the pack, like a racehorse; but he soon stopped. We signalled him that it was no use, and motioned him to go back to the ship for help, though there was small chance of his finding his way there in time to do us any good.
“So he went back; and it made us feel queer, I can tell you, to see his back get smaller and smaller, till he was nothing but a little black mark the size of your finger on the ice; and then, worst of all, he went over a hummock that quite hid him.
“All this while, till night-fall, we were drifting to the east’ard; whether it was the current or the wind I can’t tell, but away we went, jerking and shaking now and then fit to shake us off.
“‘Cheer up,’ says I to the youngster; ‘there’s many a man been adrift before; it’ll make something to tell the governor when you get home.’
“‘How are we to get home?’ says he, quite mournful-like, almost crying; that ‘home’ of his didn’t sound common-like when he said it.
“‘Oh!’ says Sands; ‘all right. Make ourselves jolly till we’re taken off it; she’ll lodge down against a bit there—look, Stevens.’
“He pointed out a bit of a bay, with a long piece of floe fast to the main, right athwart our bows as she was then going.
“‘We’d best get down there,’ says I, ‘so as to be ready.’
“So we got down on the nearest point, as we thought, ready. She squeezed up the small ice as she neared it, so that we were obliged to get up higher.
But we could have reached the floe, and got to the ship, when the youngster slipped down, and called out,
“‘Stevens,’ says he, ‘I’m gone!’
“And, sure enough, he would have gone slap down into the open water if his gun hadn’t stuck in a crack.
“He was so badly bruised—for he’d slipped over a dozen blocks, that he couldn’t walk.
