"I canna stand the pace," Tommy whimpered once; but the silence of
Corliss and Frona seemed ominous, and he kept his paddle going.
At the very fore of the ice was a floe five or six feet thick and a
couple of acres in extent. Reaching out in advance of the pack, it
clove through the water till on either side there formed a bore like
that of a quick flood-tide in an inland passage. Tommy caught sight of
it, and would have collapsed had not Corliss prodded him, between
strokes, with the point of his paddle.
"We can keep ahead," Frona panted; "but we must get time to make the
landing?"
"When the chance comes, drive her in, bow on," Corliss counselled; "and
when she strikes, jump and run for it."
"Climb, rather. I'm glad my skirt is short."
Repulsed by the bluffs of the left bank, the ice was forced towards the
right. The big floe, in advance, drove in upon the precise point of
Split-up Island.
"If you look back, I'll brain you with the paddle," Corliss threatened.
"Ay," Tommy groaned.
But Corliss looked back, and so did Frona. The great berg struck the
land with an earthquake shock. For fifty feet the soft island was
demolished. A score of pines swayed frantically and went down, and
where they went down rose up a mountain of ice, which rose, and fell,
and rose again. Below, and but a few feet away, Del Bishop ran out to
the bank, and above the roar they could hear faintly his "Hit 'er up!
Hit 'er up!" Then the ice-rim wrinkled up and he sprang back to escape
it.
Pages:
274
275
276
277
278
279
280
281
282
283
284
285
286
287
288
289
290
291
292
293
294
295
296
297
298