“Then we must stop at Makagamoot for a new supply,” said the missionary pilot, promptly, “though I fear we may have trouble in getting the natives to turn out at this time of night; still, with your permission, Captain Ryder, I think we would better try it.”
“Certainly, sir,” agreed Phil; and so the Chimo, being somewhere in the vicinity of the invisible Eskimo settlement at that very moment, was headed for the west bank of the river. Her whistle was sounded vigorously at short intervals, to attract attention, and in a few minutes her crew had the satisfaction of seeing a glow of fire-light on the beach not more than a mile ahead. At the same time there came an ominous crunching of ice, and all hands instantly realized that inshore the river was already frozen over. The ice was not yet thick enough to stop them, though it materially impeded their progress; they finally succeeded in reaching the bank.
At first the few sleepy natives who came, out of curiosity, to witness the unusual sight of a steamboat at that time of night and thus late in the season, were disinclined to do any work before morning; but the appearance among them of the missionary, and a few words from him, produced a magical change in their attitude. Five minutes later a long line containing every able-bodied man in the settlement was formed from the steamer to the wood-pile, and a steady stream of cord-wood sticks, passed from hand to hand, was flowing aboard.
Within half an hour every inch of wood room was filled, the natives were made glad by double the pay they had ever received for a similar amount of work, and the Chimo was backing out of the channel she had made for herself towards open water.
Only fifteen miles now lay between her and Anvik, and though the night had grown bitterly cold, her pilot held out hopes that they might still make the run without being nipped in the rapidly forming ice.
Under every pound of steam that her boiler would bear, the sturdy little craft quivered to her very keel as she ploughed through the black waters, grinding the floating ice-cakes beneath her bow, tossing them to one side, or beating them to fragments with her powerful wheel. Leaving the missionary alone in the pilot-house, Phil worked with Serge and Isaac at heaving wood into the roaring furnace. In face of its fervent heat it was hard for them to realize that the night was cold, and much less that the mercury stood close to zero.
But the silent figure grasping the frigid spokes up in the pilot-house knew it, and his anxiety increased with each slow-dragging hour. Was it indeed too late to reach a safe winter haven? Had he been too officious and self-confident? He almost feared so, and said as much to Phil when the young mate came up to inquire how many miles more they had to go.
“Not a bit of it, sir,” cried the lad, with all his old cheery confidence fully restored. “Why, you not only rescued us from a regular slough of despond, but from the imminent danger of being frozen in where we were as well. If you hadn’t come along we should certainly have stayed there until morning, in which case it is plain enough now that the Chimo would have gone no farther this winter. Now you have at least brought us within reach of safety even if we shouldn’t move another yard, and you have lifted a mighty heavy load of anxiety from my shoulders, I can tell you. But aren’t we nearly there, sir? It seems as though we had come fifty miles instead of fifteen since we took on that wood.”
“Yes, and if it were daylight, which it soon will be, we could see Anvik now. When we have made a couple more miles I shall head her into the ice. In the meantime I wish you would ask Serge to make me a pot of his hottest chy, for I am nearly perished with the cold.”
“A pot of what?” asked Phil, thinking he must have misunderstood the word.