"I pray so."
"If he comes by the Bight, he'll never get here at all. The Bight's breakin' up. There's rotten ice beyond the Spotted Horses. An' Tickle-my-Ribs is——"
"He'll come. He'll be here afore——"
"There's a gale o' snow comin' down. 'Twill cloud the moon. A man would lose hisself——"
"He'll come."
Uncle Joe West went out again. This was to plod once more down the narrows to the base of Blow-me-Down Dick and search the vague light of the coast towards Thank-the-Lord and Mad Harry for the first sight of Doctor Luke. It was not time. He knew that. There would be hours of waiting. It would be dawn before a man could come by Thank-the-Lord and Mad Harry if he left Our Harbour even so early as dusk. And as for crossing the Bight—no man could cross the Bight. It was blowing up, too—clouds rising and a threat of snow abroad. Uncle Joe West glanced apprehensively towards the northeast. It would snow before dawn. The moon was doomed. A dark night would fall.
And the Bight—Doctor Luke would never attempt to cross the Bight——
Doctor Luke, hanging between the hummock and the pan, the gaff shivering under his weight, slowly subsided towards the hummock. It was a slow, cautious approach. He had no faith in his foothold. A toe slipped. He paused. It was a grim business. The other foot held. The leg, too, was equal to the strain. He wriggled his toe back to its grip of the edge of the ice. It was an improved foothold. He turned then and began to lift and thrust himself backward. And a last thrust on the gaff set him on his haunches on the Arctic hummock.
He turned to Billy Topsail.