New strength came to Breeze and Wolfe with renewed hope, and they were able to aid in dragging the dories back. In less than half an hour later they were once more safe on board the _Vixen_, and the whole crew was striving to see who could do the most for their comfort, and show them how fully the brave deed they had accomplished was appreciated. They now learned that ever since darkness set in, those who came to their rescue had held themselves in readiness to set forth the moment they should find out in what direction to go, and that their very first cries for help were heard and answered. Breeze and Wolfe were readily thawed out by hot drinks and blankets, so that they soon fell asleep, to awaken in the morning feeling but little the worse for their hardships. With Hank Hoffer the case was different. His hands and feet were frost-bitten, and besides having a badly sprained ankle, he was so prostrated by what he had suffered that he was confined to his bunk for many days, and never wholly recovered from his terrible experience. He never could tell exactly how he escaped to the iceberg, after his dory had been crushed between it and the drifting cakes by which he was surrounded. He was able, however, to describe in vivid and forcible language his joy at sight of the schooner, his horror at losing his foothold and falling into the deep crevice while trying to signal her, and his fright when Breeze came sliding down on top of him. Towards Breeze and Wolfe his gratitude knew no bounds. He begged them to forgive him for the cruel tricks he had played upon them, and was never afterwards tired of sounding their praises. In this taste of arctic trials and sufferings the dorymates thought they had met with adventures as strange as any they were likely to encounter. But their trip was by no means ended, and the Banks still held startling experiences in store for them, as they were to discover ere many days had passed. CHAPTER XIII. LOST IN THE FOG. For several days after that on which Hank Hoffer was rescued the wind blew steadily from the south, driving the ice-fields far back towards their northern home, but bringing in their place dense masses of the almost equally dreaded fog. Fog is the ever-present terror of the Banks, and hangs over them so constantly as to cause the remark to be frequently made that in this latitude three hundred and sixty-five days out of the year are foggy. Of course this is an exaggeration; but it is true that hardly a day passes that does not disclose a fog-bank rising above the horizon in one or another direction.