The two had crossed the crest of the hill, as they talked, wholly oblivious of the passage of time, until Toby suggested:
"I'm thinkin' now we'd better be goin' back. The mail boat never bides long here."
"She was to be here half an hour," said Charley, as they retraced their steps. "We haven't been half an hour."
A moment later they reached the top of the hill. Both boys stopped and looked below them and in consternation into the empty harbour.
"She's gone! The ship has gone!" cried Charley in sudden fright.
"She's gone!" echoed Toby. "She's goin' and leavin' you!"
"Oh, catch her! Signal her! Do something!" Charley plead helplessly.
"We can't catch she or signal she! She's too far," and Toby pointed to a long black line of smoke rising above the rocks beyond Pinch-In Tickle, and more than a mile distant.
"What shall I do? Oh, what shall I do?" wailed Charley in wild despair.
What indeed could he do? Here he was, left upon the bleak rocks of the Labrador coast, at the edge of an Arctic winter, a lad of thirteen, a stranger in a strange and desolate land.