The Wilderness Castaways Part 13

"Nothin' but pray now. We hollered an' fired th' guns. I been tryin'

to think of everythin', an' they ain't nothin' else I can think of till 'tis light enough to see, an' then maybe we'll be findin' a way to fix th' boat; an' maybe if we prays th' Lord'll show us a way to do un."

The lads again lapsed into silence, to be broken finally by Paul.

"Dan?"

"Yes."

"Isn't it most morning?"

"'Tis a long while till mornin' yet. I'm thinkin' 'tis about two bells."

"One o'clock?"

"Yes. I'll strike a match, an' you looks at your watch."

The flash of the match disclosed the hour as ten minutes past twelve.

"Time goes wonderful slow."

"Yes. I thought it was almost morning."

"Were you sleepin'?"

"No."

Another silence, and Dan remarked:

"You got a wonderful lot o' ca'tridges in your bag. What you bringin'

so many for?"

"They're what Mr. Remington gave me."

"Wonderful lot of un. More 'n you'll need in a year."

They settled down again, and when Dan looked up a faint light was showing through the fog blanket. He stirred and Paul awoke.

"We been sleepin', Paul, an' day'll soon be breakin'."

"Where are we?" asked Paul, rubbing his eyes.

"Cruisin' to th' s'uthard on a bit of ice in Hudson Bay," answered Dan, adding facetiously: "We ain't got no log, an' I've lost th'

reckonin'."

"Oh!" exclaimed Paul, sitting up and looking around him. "I remember now! I was dreaming of home, and when I woke up I thought we were in camp. My, but I'm stiff and cold."

"'Tis a kind of camp, but not a sh.o.r.e camp."

As daylight grew the outlook appeared more dismal than ever. The fog if possible was more dense than the evening before, and while the boys slept a corner of the pan had broken off.

"Do you think we can mend the boat?" asked Paul.

"'Tis too dark yet," answered Dan, "but we'll be tryin' soon as we can see."

"I'm hungry. I haven't eaten a thing since twelve o'clock yesterday."

"So is I hungry, an' we'll be eatin' while we can't do nothin' else."

An investigation of the provision box disclosed a can of corned beef, three cans of baked beans, a small piece of bacon, a dozen ship's biscuits, a few pounds of flour and some tea, left over from their fishing trip.

"We'll open one of the cans of beans, and each have a biscuit,"

suggested Dan, "but they ain't nothin' to drink."

"That's so; we can't make tea without a fire."

"No, an' the water's salt."

"We're up against it good and hard. Now you speak of water, I'm famishing for a drink," said Paul as he ate.

"Th' ice is sweet, an' after you eats I'll chip a cupful of un, an' if you holds un under your jacket she'll melt."

"I never would have thought of that. These beans are mighty good.

Let's have another can. I'm not half satisfied."

"No, we got to be careful of un. They's no tellin' how long 't will be before we gets picked up, an' we got to be careful of the grub."

"I'm fearfully hungry, but I guess you're right."

"Yes, I knows I is. Dad's often sayin' to me, 'Dan, if you ever gets in a tight place, an' not much grub in sight, be wonderful careful of what you has, and make un last.'"

It was full light now. Dan chipped some ice with the axe, filled a cup, and Paul held it carefully beneath his jacket.

An examination of the boat was not rea.s.suring. The forward planks on the port side were stove far in, and an attempt to repair the damage, even temporarily, appeared at first a hopeless task.

"I'm not seein' just how to mend un," remarked Dan, contemplating the damaged planks, "but Dad, he says to me, 'Always try. Do un best. What looks like a hard job is very like to be an easy one in the end.' He says to me, 'Do all un can, anyhow, howsoever hard the job looks. The Lord may have you marked up to live to sixty or seventy year,' says he, 'and to die in bed, but if you gets in a tight place, and they's somethin' you might be doin' to get out of un if you tries, and you lets un go without tryin' because you're not seein' how to do un at first, the Lord'll be sayin' to the recordin' angel, just change that feller's markin', and put he down to die now, and make un drownin'.

Dad says the Lord'll just be thinkin' 'tain't no use keepin' a feller around the world what don't care enough about livin' to do what he can to save hisself, but leaves it all to the Lord to do.'"

Encouraged by this philosophy of his father's, Dan worked with a will, and at the end of an hour succeeded in forcing the stove-in planking back into place.

In the meantime Paul's ice had melted, and, refreshed by a half cup of slightly brackish water, he turned his attention to Dan's success with the boat.

"Won't that go all right without leaking much?" he asked.

"No, 'twill leak like a sieve," answered Dan, surveying the boat. "I were seein' that much to do from the first, but I weren't seein' how to make the planks hold where I put un, or how to make un tight, and I'm not seein' 't yet. Now if we had some bits of board and some nails, I'm thinkin' we might make un tight."

"There's the grub box. Couldn't we knock that to pieces, and use the boards and nails in it?"

"The grub box! Well there! And I never were thinkin' of un!"