The ship crept along. For half an hour, while the night drew on, not a word was spoken, save the captain's quiet "Port!" and "Starboard!" into the wheelhouse tube. Then the mate heard the old man mutter:
"Poor b'y! Poor Sir Archibald!"
No other reference was made to the boy. In the captain's mind, thereafter, for all the mate knew, young Archibald Armstrong, the owner's son, was merely one of a crew of sixty men, lost on the floe.
"Ice ahead!" screamed the lookout in the bow.
The ship was brought to a stop. The lane she had been following had closed before her. The mate went forward.
"Heavy ice, sir," he reported.
Broken ice, then, had come down with the wind. It had been carried into the channels, choking them.
"Does you see water beyond, b'y?" the captain shouted.
"'Tis too thick t' tell, sir."