We kept time with each other by our long, deep breathing. Such a pull! At every stroke the boat shot ahead like an arrow. Thus we worked at the oars for fifteen minutes—it seemed to me as many hours.
"Have we almost come to it, Mr. Larkin?" I asked.
"Almost, captain,—don't give up: for the love of our dear little ones at home, don't give up, captain," replied Larkin.
The oars flashed as the blades turned up to the moonlight. The men who plied them were fathers, and had fathers' hearts; the strength which nerved them at that moment was more than human.
Suddenly Mr. Larkin stopped pulling, and my heart for a moment almost ceased its beating; for the terrible thought that he had given out crossed my mind. But I was quickly reassured by his saying—
"Gently, captain, gently—a stroke or two more—there, that will do"—and the next moment the boat's side came in contact with something.
Larkin sprung from the boat upon the ice. I started up, and, calling upon the men to make fast the boat to the ice, followed.
We ran to the dark spot in the centre of the mass, and found two little boys—the head of the smaller nestling in the bosom of the larger. Both were fast asleep!
They were benumbed with cold, and would surely have frozen to death, but for our timely rescue.
Mr. Larkin grasped one of the lads, cut off his shoes, tore off his jacket; and then, loosening his own garments to the skin, placed the chilled child in contact with his own warm body, carefully wrapping over him his great-coat.