tched at him.

"How's the wind?" he roared.

"North-east," said the skipper.

They could scarcely hear each other, though the schooner was lurching
over it more easily now with shortened canvas, and Wyllard only made
Dampier understand that he wished to speak to him by thrusting him
towards the deck-house door. They went in together, and stood
clutching at the table with the lamplight on their tense, wet faces and
the brine that ran from them making pools upon the deck.

"It's hauled round," said the skipper, "the wrong way."

Wyllard made a savage gesture. "We've had it from the last quarter we
wanted ever since we sailed, and we sailed nearly three months too
late. We're too close in to the beach for you to heave her to?"

"A sure thing," said the other. "I was driving her to work off it with
the sea getting up when the breeze burst on us. She put her rail right
under, and we had to let go most everything before she'd pick it up.
She's pointing somewhere north, jammed right up on the starboard tack
just now, but I can't stand on."

This was evident to Wyllard, and he closed one hand tight. He wanted
to stand on as long as possible before the ice closed in, but he
realised that to do so would put the schooner ashore.

"Well?" he said sharply.

Dampier made a grimace. "I'm going out to heave her round. If we'd
any sense in us we'd square off the boom then, and leg it away across
the Pacific for Vancouver."

"In that case," said Wyllard, "somebody would lose his bonus."

Dampier swung round on him with a flash in his eyes.

"The bonus!" he said. "Who was it came for you with two dollars in his
pocket after he'd bought his ticket from Vancouver?"

Wyllard smiled at him. "If you took that up the wrong way I'm sorry.
She ought to work off on the port tack, and when we've open water to
leeward you can heave her to. When it moderates we can pick up the
beach again."

"That's just what I mean to do."

Then Dampier went out on deck, while Wyllard, flinging off his dripping
clothing, crawled into his bunk and went quietly to sleep.

CHAPTER XVI.

THE FIRST ICE.

Daylight broke on a frothing sea, across which there scudded wisps of
smoke-like drift and thin showers of snow, before they hove her to.
Then, with two little wet rags of canvas set she lay almost head on to
the big combers, and met their onslaught with a hove-up weather bow.
Having little way upon her, she lurched over instead of