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The crew dared not hoist sails, because not a man of the St. Peter had the physical strength to climb and lower canvas. The rain turned to sleet. The sleet froze to the rotting sails, to the ice-logged hull, to the wan yardarms frost-white like ghosts. At every lurch of the sea slush slithered down from the rigging on the shivering seamen.
One blow of his pole and the foolish youth fell senseless to the bottom of the canoe. "Look, sir, look!" screamed La Chesnaye, "the canoe's getting ice-logged! She's sunk to the gun'ales!" But at the moment when M. Radisson turned to save young Gillam, the unguided canoe had darted between two rolling seas. Walls of ice rose on either side.
"Good-bye to you, Ramsay," said Jack abruptly. "Where to, Jack?" I asked, bestirring myself. I could no more go back to Eli Kirke. But little Jack Battle was squirming his wooden clogs into the sand as he used to dig his toes, and he answered not a word. "'Tis early yet for the Grand Banks, Jack. Ben Gillam's ship keeled mast over hull from being ice-logged last spring.
No better danger signal exists among the rocks of the North Pacific than this same snorting walrus, who for all his noise and size is a floundering coward. The great danger to the nutshell skin's is from becoming ice-logged when the sleet storms fall and freeze; and for the rest, the sea makes small matter of a hunter more or less.
The spars were solid with frozen sleet from the crosstrees to the crow's nest. Your dories would be ice-logged for a month yet." "It it it aren't the Grand Banks no more," stammered Jack. His manner arrested me. The honest blue eyes were shifting and his toes at work in the sand. "There be gold on the high seas for the taking," vouched Jack.
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