In spite of all efforts, Andrew had gone back to his bunk, where he lay day after day cuddling his pipes, and growing more and more despondent. Watty also went back, though Steve tried in every way to interest him in sports—running, jumping, and the like. He wanted to “gang hame to his mither,” he said; and when strong men grew so despondent, it was useless to blame a boy.
It was during one of the darkest times that Steve found the four Norwegians together upon the deck. It was when the skies were black with clouds, and a terrible wind howled through the standing rigging, and threatened to tear down the canvas sheltering of the deck; and it was not to be wondered at that the men’s spirits were down to their lowest ebb, and that, consequent upon a report from the doctor, Captain Marsham had asked the prayers of all present for their two brethren who lay grievously mentally sick, for it was more from brain than from bodily ailment. It was Sunday, and the proper observance of that day had always been carefully kept up. Steve, heart-sore, and as depressed as any one on board, had gone on the deck to have a run up and down, as it was impossible to go out; and he soon became aware that Skene was trotting at his heels. Directly after he came upon Johannes and his three companions, and halted, wondering why they were there, as they were generally with the firemen below.
“We were only having a talk, sir,” said the harpooner.
“About our position—whether we shall get through it?” cried Steve eagerly.
“Yes, sir.”
“Well, and what do you think?”
“That we shall, sir. Why not? It is very dark and cold, but we have plenty of food and fuel. We only want work. The cook yonder is always busy getting things ready for us, and he is the healthiest man on board.”
“Then you think we can hold out?”
“Please God, yes, sir,” said the men in reverent tones. “We must not give up now.”
“No, we must not give up now,” echoed Steve.