Doctor Luke lay still and expectant in the pool of water near the pan-ice and rocks of the Little Spotted Horse. He waited. Nothing happened. It was encouraging. But he did not dare stand up. Nor would he dare to get to his knees and crawl.
There was no help to be had from the agonized Billy Topsail.
Both knew it.
"Shall I come, sir?" Billy called.
"Stay where you are," Doctor Luke replied, "or we'll both drop through. Don't move."
"Ay, sir."
Presently Doctor Luke ventured delicately to take off a mitten—to extend his hand, to sink his finger-nails in the ice and attempt to draw himself forward. He tried again. It was a failure. His finger-nails were too short. He could merely scratch the ice. He reflected that if he did not concentrate his weight—that if he kept it distributed—he would not break through. And once more he tried to make use of his finger-nails.
There was no snow on this ice. It was a smooth, hard surface. It was dry. It turned out that the nails of the other hand were longer. Doctor Luke managed to gain half an inch before they slipped.