The men tugged at their oars, but there was no answering cheer; even the great Norseman was silent, while, as Steve settled down in his place once more, he felt as if they were to be left to take their chance on the outskirts of the region of ice, for, after signalling till they were weary, the Hvalross must be steaming right away.
Chapter Thirteen.
Occupants of the Deep.
Saddened faces met the gaze of the occupants of the stern sheets, as the men steadily tugged away at their oars hour after hour, with the heavy beluga hanging from its rope behind. Then all at once, when the mist was most dense, the silence perfect, and a feeling coming over all that it would be impossible to go on rowing much longer, every one loosed his oar and joined in a loud cheer; for from quite close at hand—so near, in fact, that the mist swayed with the concussion—there was the dull, heavy roar of a cannon.
“The Hvalross!” cried Steve.
“Yes, our signal-gun,” replied the captain.
A faint cheer like the distant echo of that from the boat was now heard, the men bent to their oars with renewed vigour, and ten minutes later, guided by shout after shout, the boat suddenly glided under the counter of the vessel.
“Why, we thought we had lost you!” cried the doctor, leaning over from the gangway.