“You have done everything, my lad,” cried the doctor warmly. “I have said nothing, but I have not been blind. I have watched the brave, unselfish way in which you have tried to help and encourage the others; but you have not done yet. Poor Lowe has taken to his bunk quite helpless, and there is hardly a man ready to stir. We two have to take things in hand, and the lot has fallen on us to try and save the crew of this ship. I am only the doctor, so you must take the captain’s place, and go on fighting to the end.”
“I can’t,” groaned Steve. “The end is close at hand now. I must give up.”
“A British boy ought never to give up, my lad,” cried the doctor warmly; “and you are not going to. They say that doctors say while there is life there is hope. Well, captains ought to feel the same with their crews and ships. If it were the end of November, I should be ready to take a despondent view of our position; but we shall soon be having March and the light. And you talk of giving up? Nonsense! You and I, Steve, must be ready to show that we are made of better stuff. Come, your hand upon it. Pluck works wonders, and you have plenty in you yet, though it is a little bit frozen. Now, then, British boy, you’ll fight with me till you die? Come!”
“Yes!” cried Steve, for these words seemed to galvanise him into action.
“Hah! I thought so,” cried the doctor. “Never say die, eh?”
“Never say die!” cried Steve half hysterically, for long watching and the strain had terribly lowered his tone.
“Come along, then, captain. Your crew is sick all but the cook.”
“And the Norsemen,” said Steve.
“They’re breaking down, boy. Even stout, staunch old Johannes has caught the fever this morning.”
“Fever?”