an anxious night
for most of the crew, but a breeze that drove the haze aside got up with
the sun, and Dampier expected to reach the creek before darkness fell.
He might have succeeded but for the glistening streak on the horizon,
which presently crept in on them, and resolved itself into detached
gray-white masses, with openings of various sizes in and out between
them. The breeze was freshening, and the _Selache_ was going through it
at some six knots, when Dampier came aft to Wyllard, who was standing at
the wheel. There was a moderately wide opening in the floating barrier
close ahead of him. The rest of the crew stood silent watching the
skipper, for they were by this time more or less acquainted with
Wyllard's temperament.

"You can't get through that," said Dampier, pointing to the ice.

Wyllard looked at him sourly, and the white men, at least, understood
what he was feeling. So far, he had had everything against him--calm,
and fog, and sudden gale--and now, when he was almost within sight of
the end of the first stage of his journey, they had met the ice.

"You're sure of that?" he questioned.

Dampier smiled. "It would cost too much, or I'd let you try." He called
to the man perched high in the foremost shrouds, and the answer came
down: "Packed right solid a couple of miles ahead."

Wyllard lifted one hand, and let it suddenly fall again.

"Lee, oh! We'll have her round," he said, and spun the wheel.

The men breathed more easily as they jumped for the sheets, and with a
great banging and thrashing of sailcloth the vessel shot up to windward,
and turned as on a pivot. As the schooner gathered way on the other
tack, the men glanced at Wyllard, for the _Selache's_ bows were pointing
to the southeast again, and they felt that was not the way he was going.

Wyllard turned to Dampier with a gesture of impatience.

"Baulked again!" he said. "It would have been a relief to have rammed
her in. With this breeze we'd have picked that creek up in the next six
hours."

"Sure!" replied Dampier, who glanced at the swirling wake.

"Then, if we can't get through the ice we can work the schooner round.
Stand by to flatten all sheets in, boys."

They obeyed orders cheerfully, though they knew it meant a thrash to
windward along the perilous edge of the ice. Soon the windlass was caked
with glistening ice, and long spikes of it hung from her rail, while the
slippery crystals gathered thick on deck. Lumps and floes