There was a limit to his endurance—strong man as he was. A swerve of the ship—the running off a full point—brought the truth home to him that he had been asleep. He woke and gathered himself together with a shrug of his shoulders, only soon to doze again. The ship went off the course, crashed against a drifting floe, and a Russian called a warning from the forepeak.
Stirling stiffened and twirled the spokes in time to avoid an ice island of an acre's extent. He stared upward, as if in the heavens would be found inspiration, and the haze of sky and snow and whirling sleet allowed the faint light of the sun to penetrate its veil. He calculated the sun's position, and drew out his watch, remembering the drift of the currents in Baffin Bay. It might be necessary to take a lunar or solar observation before he reached the Greenland shore, which was more than a day's steaming to the eastward.
Grimly Stirling blocked the wheel, replaced his watch, rose on tiptoes, and called the Russian from the forepeak. Fortunately, this lookout had some slight knowledge of steering. He climbed the steps on the leeward side and touched his cap.
Stirling pointed at the binnacle. "Keep that course," he said. "Do you understand?"
The Russian grinned and grasped the spokes of the wheel. Stirling stepped back a foot or more and watched the jib boom of the ship as it hung steady above the dark waters, then staggered toward the cabin companion. Down this he went, paused irresolutely in the light which streamed from the deck cluster, then pitched across a divan which was between two closed portholes, and sank into the deepest slumber of his life.
He awoke as if his sleep had been but a moment. Every limb ached. He glanced upward and saw Helen Marr standing over him, her expression intent and compassionate. She opened her lips, but did not speak, and her eyes travelled over Stirling's features, then swung toward the table. A steaming pot of coffee stood there, and beside it were biscuits and potted beef.
Stirling staggered to his feet and felt around with his hands. His coat had been removed while he slept; a pillow lay where his head had been, and the divan was partly covered with a Navaho blanket.
He realized that she had covered him up, and he appreciated, too, her thoughtful attention in keeping warm the coffee.
Stirling stepped to the table and turned. "Thank you," he said.
She smiled with comradeship and came across the cabin. "I've been on deck," said she, pointing toward the cabin companion. "The sun is on the ice, and the Russian is still holding the course you gave him."