By
the time White recovered consciousness, a broad lane of black water had
opened between that place and the Newfoundland coast, while others
could be seen in various directions.
"What are you doing?" asked White, feebly, after he had struggled back
to a knowledge of passing events, and had, for some minutes, been
watching his friend's movements.
"Building an igloo," answered Cabot, cheerily. "We might as well be
comfortable while we can, and though my hut won't have the
architectural beauty that Yim could give it, I believe it will keep us
warm."
It would have been more than easy, and perfectly natural, under the
circumstances, to give way to utter despair; for of the several
hopeless situations in which our lads had been placed during the past
few months, the present was, by far, the worst. At any moment the ice
beneath them might open and drop them into fathomless waters. Even if
it held fast, they were certainly being carried out to sea, where they
would be exposed to furious gales that must ultimately work their
destruction. In spite of all this, Cabot Grant insisted on remaining
hopefully cheerful. He said he had squeezed out of just as tight
places before, and believed he would get out of this one somehow. At
any rate, as crying wouldn't help it, he wasn't going to cry. Besides
all sorts of things might happen. They might drift ashore somewhere or
into the track of passing steamers.
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