his whole range
of vision. At the same time, knowing how little of skill he possessed
in this new line of business, and not yet having a sailor's confidence
in the craft that bore him, he was filled with such a fear of the
night, the wind, the leaping waters, and a thousand imaginary dangers
that his hardest struggle was against an ever-present impulse to arouse
his sleeping comrade. But he would not yield, and finally had the
satisfaction of coming unaided to the end of his watch.

"Midnight, and all hands on deck," he shouted, and White, springing up,
asked:

"What's happened? Anything gone wrong?"

"Nothing yet," replied Cabot, "but something will happen if you leave
me at this wretched tiller a minute longer."

"I won't," laughed the other. "It will only take me half a minute to
get an eye-opener in shape of a cup of cold tea, and then you can turn
in."

When Cabot was at length free to seek his bunk he turned in all
standing, only kicking off his boots. The very next thing of which he
was conscious was being shaken and told that breakfast was ready.

It was broad daylight; the sun was shining; the breeze had so moderated
that White had been able to leave the schooner to herself with a lashed
helm while he prepared breakfast, and as Cabot tumbled out he wondered
if he had really been anxious and fearful a few hours earlier.

All that day and through the following night our lads kept watch and
watch while the "Sea Bee" travelled up the coast. Early on the second
morning they passed Flower Cove, and from this point White headed
directly across the Strait of Belle Isle, which, here, is but a dozen
miles in width. Then, as Newfoundland grew dim behind them, a new
coast backed by a range of lofty hills came into view ahead; and, in
answer to Cabot's eager question, White said:

"Yes, that is Labrador, and those are the Bradore Hills back of
Forteau."

CHAPTER XVI.

MOSQUITOES OF THE FAR NORTH.

While Cabot gazed eagerly at the lofty but still distant coast towards
which all their hopes were now directed, his companion was casting
anxious glances to the eastward, where a low hanging bank of cloud
betokened an advancing fog. He had good reason to be apprehensive, for
this northern entrance to the gulf of St. Lawrence forms the shortest
route for steamers plying between Canadian and European ports.
Consequently many of them use it during the brief summer season when it
is free from ice. At the