“Aye, aye, sir!” and for the next fifteen minutes it seemed as though the clangor of that brazen-throated bell might have been heard from Bering Strait to Oonimak.
[“White men, as I said; and Americans, I’ll be bound!”] cried Gerald Hamer, as the light of his torch fell on the object of his search. “Great Scott! they’re only boys, and their craft is a water-logged bladder! How in the name of the good and the great— But there, lads! no matter—you are safe now. Your troubles are all over.”
[“‘WHITE MEN, AS I SAID; AND AMERICANS, I’LL BE BOUND!’”]
As he spoke these last words the strong man’s voice grew husky, and his eyes moistened, for poor Phil’s overstrained nerves had given way, and he was sobbing hysterically, while Serge also seemed on the very point of breaking down.
Very tenderly were the rescued lads lifted from the frail little craft, that had upheld them so bravely, into the ship’s boat. They were too stiff and numbed to stand. They could not even sit up, but sank limply into the bottom of the boat, their heads pillowed on coats gladly offered by members of the crew.
Then, with the bidarkie in tow, the boat was headed back through the fog towards the clanging bell. Ten minutes later, Phil and Serge, each surrounded by a group of rough but willing nurses, were between warm blankets, their bidarkie had been hoisted on deck, and the good ship Norsk was cleaving the waters of Bering Sea, on her way to the distant port of St. Michaels.