“Great heavens,� he moaned to himself, “is this to be the end? Am I doomed to end my life here in the ocean with nobody to know of my fate?�
He cast his eyes upward. Then he almost gave a shout of relief. Towering above him was a mighty white wall.
It was the iceberg to which he owed his predicament.
It has been said that drowning men will clutch at straws. This may, or may not, be true, but certain it is that to Billy Raynor, almost exhausted by his long fight in the chilly water, the iceberg appeared a haven of refuge. Like most of such huge ice structures it was very irregular in shape.
Near him was a spot at which a narrow shelf stretched out close to the water’s edge. Raynor struck out for it and drew himself upon the ledge of ice. Then, for a time, he lay there supine, too weak to even move.
He was fearfully cold. His teeth chattered and he felt as if his flesh must be blue. But at least he had saved his life for the time being. He knew that ten minutes more in the water would have finished him. Raynor sat up and took stock of the situation.
He was afloat on an iceberg, a precarious enough situation surely. His momentary feeling of exultation at having found a safe refuge began to fade. He felt a wave of fear pass over him. He shouted with all his might, cupping his hands and casting his voice in the direction he thought the Cambodian had vanished. But had he known it he was sending his appeals in altogether the wrong quarter, for the iceberg was slowly revolving as it lumbered its way south.
“This won’t do. I mustn’t give way,� thought the lad, pluckily striving to overcome his depressing fears.
He felt in his pockets. The tin box in which he was carrying down his midnight lunch for consumption in the Cambodian’s engine room was still there.
“That’s lucky,� thought Raynor, and was still more pleased when he found that its contents, sandwiches and a piece of pie, were not much damaged by water. He began to eat ravenously, in the meantime turning his dilemma over and over in his mind.