"I'm an agile man, Billy. One moment. I——"
Billy Topsail turned his back to a blast of the gale and patiently awaited the issue of Doctor Luke's inspection of the path.
"A man can't cross that slush, sir," said he.
Past Deep Water Head the last of the floe was driving. There is a wide little cove there—it is called Deep Water Cove; and there is deep water—a drop of ten fathoms (they say)—under Deep Water Cliff. There was open water in both directions beyond the points of the cove. A detour was thus interrupted.
Doctor Luke and Billy Topsail confronted the only ice that was still in contact with the shore. At no time had the floe extended far beyond Deep Water Head. A high sea, rolling in from the northeast, had played under the ice; and this had gone on for three days—the seas running in and subsiding: all the while casting the ice ponderously against the rocks.
Heavy Arctic ice—fragments of many glacial bergs—had caught the lesser, more brittle drift-pans of the floe against the broken base and submerged face of Deep Water Cliff and ground them slowly to slush in the swells. There were six feet of this slush, perhaps—a depth of six feet and a width of thirty.
It was as coarse as cracked ice in a freezer. It was a quicksand. Should a man's leg go deep enough he would not be able to withdraw it; and once fairly caught—both feet gripped—he would inevitably drop through. It would be a slow and horrible descent—like sinking in a quicksand.
It was near dark. The snow—falling thicker—was fast narrowing the circle of vision.
"I might get across," said Doctor Luke.
"You'll not try, sir," Billy Topsail declared, positively. "You'll start back t' Candlestick Cove."