When Archie reached the deck, the air was limpid, frosty and still. There was a blue sky overhead, stretching from horizon to horizon. A waste of ice lay all about—rough, close-packed, glistening in the sun. With the falling away of the wind the floe had lost its headway, and had crept softly in upon the open water. The ship was held in the grip of the pack, and must perforce remain for a time in the shadow of the berg, where shelter from the gale of the night had been sought. Save for the watch of that hour, the men were below, at breakfast. The "great white silence" possessed the sea. For the boy, this silence, vast and heavy, and the immeasurable area of broken ice, with its pent-up, treacherous might, was as awe-impelling as the gale and the night.
"What d'ye think, Mr. Ackell?" said the captain to the mate, when the two came up.
Ackell looked to the northeast. "We'll have wind by noon," he replied.
"'Tis what I think," the captain agreed. "Archie, b'y, you'll have a couple of hours, afore the ice goes abroad. Bowsprit 'll take the crew, an' you'll do what he tells you."
Ebenezer Bowsprit, with half a dozen cronies of his own choosing, led the way over the side, in high good humour. In the group on the deck stood Billy Topsail. He eyed Archie with frank envy as the lad prepared to descend to the ice; for to participate in the first hunt, generally regarded as pure sport, was a thing greatly to be desired. He was perceived by Archie, who was at once taken with a wish for company of his own age.
"Captain," the boy whispered, "let the other kid come along, won't you?"
"Topsail," the captain ordered, "get a gaff, an' cut along with the rest."
In five minutes, the boys had broken the ice of diffidence, and were chatting like sociable magpies, as they crawled, jumped, climbed, over the uneven pack. They were Newfoundlanders both: the same in strength, feeling, spirit, and, indeed, experience. The one was of the remote outports, where children are reared to toil and peril, which, with hunger, is their heritage, and must ever be; the other was of the city, son of the well-to-do, who, following sport for sport's sake, had made the same ventures and become used to the same toil and peril.
"'Tis barb'rous hard walkin'," said Billy.
"Sure," replied the other. "And they're getting away ahead of us."