"What's mush-ice?" interrupted Eric.
"Mush-ice," said the old keeper, "is a mixture of frozen spray, an' ice, an' bits o' drift, an' everythin' that kin freeze or be friz over, pilin' up on the beach. It's floatin', ye understan', an', as a rule, 'bout two or three foot thick. Owin' to the movin' o' the water, it don't never freeze right solid, but the surf on the beach breaks it into bits anywheres from the size of 'n apple to a keg. An' it joggles up 'n' down, 'n' the pieces grin' agin each other. It's jest a seesawin' edge o' misery on a frozen beach."
"That's as bad as Alaska!" exclaimed the boy.
"It's a plumb sight worse," the other answered. "I ain't never been no further north 'n Thunder Cape, jest by Nipigon. An' what's more, I ain't goin'! But even up there, the ice freezes solid 'n' you kin do somethin' with it. Mush-ice never gits solid, but like some sort o' savage critter born o' the winter, champs its jaws of ice, waitin' for its prey."
"How do you like that, Eric?" asked his father. "That's some of the 'fun' you're always talking about."
"Can't scare me, Dad," replied Eric with a laugh. "I'm game."
"Ye'll need all yer gameness," put in the old life-saver. "Wait till ye hear the end o' the yarn! As I was sayin', it was in November. The fust big storm o' the winter broke sudden. I never see nothin' come on so quick. It bust right out of a snow-squall, 'n' the glass hadn' given no warnin'. We wa'n't expectin' trouble an' it was all we c'd do to save the boats. Ye couldn't stand up agin it, an' what wasn't snow an' sleet, was spray.
"All mornin' the gale blew, an' in the middle o' the afternoon the breakwater went to bits. The keepers o' the light at the end o' the breakwater lighted the lantern, 'n' you take my word for it, they were takin' their lives in their hands in doin' it. Jest half 'n hour later, the whole shebang, light, lighthouse, 'n' the end o' the breakwater, went flyin' down to leeward in a heap o' metal 'n splinters.
"Jest about that time, some folks down Chocolay way, lookin' out to sea, took a notion they saw what looked like white ghosts o' ships 'way out on the bar. She was jest blowin' tiger cats with the claws out! 'Twa'n't a day for no Atlantic greyhound to be out, much less a small boat. But I tell ye, boy, when there's lives to be saved, there's allers some Americans 'round that's goin' to have a try at it. Over the ice 'n' through the gale, eight men helpin', the fishermen o' Chocolay carried a yawl an' life-lines to the point o' the beach nearest the wreck. Four men clumb into her."
"Without cork-jackets or anything?" asked Eric.