“Stop her! Back her! Stop her! Go ahead, full speed!” were the orders tapped out on the engine-room gong, and rushing at the ice with gathered headway, the Chimo crashed her way through it for a hundred yards farther. Again she was backed, and again charged the enemy with furious impetus. This time the shock was terrific, though she did not gain more than half the former distance. Again and again was the attack repeated, until finally she gained barely a length.
With the next shock the steamer climbed the ice, and ran nearly half her length out of water before the barrier broke with her weight, and set her once more afloat.
“That’s all,” said Phil, quietly. “We don’t dare try that again. If we did we’d probably open every seam in her, even if we didn’t break her back. So that’s all we can do, and here is where the Chimo will have to lie for the winter. It’s too bad, though, for we aren’t more than a quarter of a mile from shore.”
“I don’t know about lying here all winter,” replied the missionary. “I don’t like it myself, and if you would rather have the boat close to the bank I guess we can manage to put her there.”
“How?” asked Phil.
“You wait here and get breakfast while I go ashore on the ice. I won’t be gone more than an hour, and when I come back I’ll tell you,” was the reply. “I shall bring the doctor with me, too.”
[CHAPTER VII]
THE “CHIMO” GOES INTO WINTER-QUARTERS
While Phil watched the departing missionary, who was making his way cautiously over the newly-formed ice, the late-rising sun appeared above the southeastern horizon, gilding a cross surmounting the tower of a little log-church pleasantly located on a high bluff. Back of it rose the dark-green wall of a spruce forest, while about it were clustered a number of low but very substantial and comfortable-looking log-houses. Near the beach at the foot of the bluff stood an Indian village of huts whose roofs bristled with poles. In each one was left a square hole for the egress of smoke from the open fire built on an earthen floor beneath.