“And why won’t she get to us? You’re not like your father there, boy. ’Twarn’t in your father ever to give up, boy. With him, the blacker it came the brighter he’d get. You’re more like your mother’s people in that, Eddie.”
“I think I must be, Martin—everybody says so, anyway.”
Throughout the long cold night they drifted. Eddie, shivering in the stern, broke a long silence:
“It must be near morning now, Martin?”
“Gettin’ to it, boy, gettin’ to it.”
“And the water smoother, don’t you think, Martin?”
“A lot smoother, Eddie-boy”; and under his breath, “I only wish it hadn’t moderated for a while longer.”
“And the air not quite so cold, Martin?”
“Not quite, Eddie-boy”; and again under his breath, “And that’s not for the best, either, just now.” He looked out ahead—out and up. It was quite a little while before Eddie noticed what Martin had foreseen—the white flakes fluttering down. Only when they began to settle on the back of his woollen mitts did the young fellow take note of them—resting there for a moment and then melting under the warmth of his hand. He regarded the first flake curiously. That he could see it at all was proof that morning was at hand, and he felt glad. What it might mean to them did not then dawn on him. When his brain awoke to the warning it brought he did not obey his first impulse—to shout out his discovery. Instead, he waited and thought it all out, and as he waited and pondered the flakes fell faster.
When he had thought it all out he looked toward Martin, who was leaning over the bow. Thinking he might be asleep—he felt drowsy enough himself— Eddie feared to waken him at first. But he finally ventured to call, “Martin!”