“The loose ice on the other side helps to keep us against the big berg,” said Barwell Dawson.
“I have tried to get some pictures, but the big iceberg is too close,” came from Professor Jeffer, who was as cool as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened.
“Well, we’re going to get away from it mighty quick,—if we can,” answered Mr. Camdal, pointedly. The close quarters did not suit him any better than it suited Mr. Dawson and the boys.
To clear the propeller a man had to be hoisted over the stern in a sling. He carried with him a pickpole, and with this dug out the cake which had become caught in the blades of the propeller.
This work had hardly been accomplished when another grinding sound came from the big iceberg, and a shower of small ice came down on the forecastle, knocking out several lights of glass. Andy was struck on the head and hurled flat.
“Oh, Andy, are you hurt?” cried Chet, in alarm, as he rushed to his chum’s assistance.
“Not much, but that was a pretty good crack,” was Andy’s reply, as he felt his head where a lump was rapidly rising.
“You boys had better go below,” said Barwell Dawson. “You can’t do anything up here, and you may get a worse dose next time.”
But the lads were loath to retire, and so lingered on the deck, but took good care to keep out of the way of the ice that fell a little later.
Finding that the propeller would now work, Captain Williamson gave orders for full speed astern. As soon as the engines started there was more crashing of ice, the small stuff being ground down under the ship, and the ice of the pinnacle breaking off along the shrouds. Everybody on deck had to get out of the way, for the deck took on the appearance of “an ice-house upset,” as Chet put it, big chunks of the frozen material lying in all directions.