"Take the ship!" called Marr from the poop. "It's your ship from now on, Mr. Stirling."
The Ice Pilot leaned over the edge of the crow's-nest. "Where are you headin' for?" he asked with a stout laugh. "I don't know your compass point. You didn't tell me."
"Tie to the ice—the pack!" Marr had consulted the binnacle before giving the order.
Stirling chuckled like a big boy, turned in his narrow quarters, and crooked his elbows with the glasses clasped in his hands. He studied the currents and the drift of the lighter floes, sniffed the wind, then swung his eyes from northeast to northwest.
"Hard astarboard!" he called down to the quartermaster. "Put her hard astarboard."
"Hard astarboard," rolled up to the crow's-nest. "She's hard astarboard, sir!" the wheelsman corrected.
"Steady now. Steady! Over with it. Now steady. Port! Port! Hard aport! Stead-y thar!"
[CHAPTER X—TO THE LAST DAY]
The Pole Star threaded the ice floes like a dancer on a polished floor. She drove all that day north and east; she crashed through new ice; she dodged the ancient floes and worked into the pack and through the lanes under the masterful handling of the Ice Pilot, who sought no rest. Coffee was brought to him by the galley boy. With this, and now and then a drag from his pipe, he held down three watches until morning broke and revealed to the east the higher line of the barrier beyond which the ship could not go.
"Pack ahead!" he announced, turning and staring shrewdly toward Marr who stood with Cushner on the poop. "Yon's the North pack!"