The cook came to the edge of the ice. “Does you, lad?” he asked, softly. “Does you wisht you was along o’ me, Tommy? Ah, but,” he said, scratching his beard, bewildered, “you isn’t.” The space of black water between was short, but infinitely capacious; it was sullen and cold—intent upon its own wretchedness: indifferent to the human pain on either side. The child stared at the water, nostrils lifting, hands clinched, body quivering: thus as if at bay in the presence of an implacable terror. He turned to the open sea, vast, gray, heartless: a bitter waste—might and immensity appalling. Wistfully then to the land, upon which the scattered pack was advancing, moving in disorder, gathering as it went: bold, black coast, naked, uninhabited—but yet sure refuge: being greater than the sea, which it held confined; solid ground, unmoved by the wind, which it flung contemptuously to the sky. And from the land to his father’s large, kind face. “No, b’y,” the cook repeated, “you isn’t. You sees, Tommy lad,” he added, brightening, as with a new idea, “you _isn’t_ along o’ me.” Tommy rubbed his eyes, which were now wet. “I wisht,” he sobbed, his under lip writhing, “I _was_—along o’ you!” “I isn’t able t’ swim t’ you, Tommy,” said the cook; “an’, ah, Tommy!” he went on, reproachfully, wagging his head, “you isn’t able t’ swim t’ me. I tol’ you, Tommy—when I went down the Labrador las’ year—I _tol’_ you t’ l’arn t’ swim. I tol’ you, Tommy—don’t you mind the time?—when you was goin’ over the side o’ th’ ol’ _Gabriel’s Trumpet_, an’ I had my head out o’ the galley, an’ ’twas a fair wind from the sou’east, an’ they was weighin’ anchor up for’ard—don’t you mind the day, lad?—I tol’ you, Tommy, you _must_ l’arn t’ swim afore another season. Now, see what’s come t’ you!” still reproachfully, but with deepening tenderness. “An’ all along o’ not mindin’ your dad! ‘Now,’ says you, ‘I wisht I’d been a good lad an’ minded my dad.’ Ah, Tommy—shame! I’m thinkin’ you’ll mind your dad after this.” Tommy began to bawl. “Never you care, Tommy,” said the cook. “The wind’s blowin’ we ashore. You an’ me’ll be saved.” “I wants t’ be along o’ you!” the boy sobbed. “Ah, Tommy! _You_ isn’t alone. You got the Jew.” “But I wants _you_!” “You’ll take care o’ Tommy, won’t you, Joe?” Salim Awad smiled. He softly patted Tommy Hand’s broad young shoulder. “I weel have,” said he, slowly, desperately struggling with the language, “look out for heem. I am not can,” he added, with a little laugh, “do ver’ well.” “Oh,” said the cook, patronizingly, “you’re able for it, Joe.” “I am can try eet,” Salim answered, courteously bowing, much delighted. “Much ’bliged.” Meantime Tommy had, of quick impulse, stripped off his jacket and boots. He made a ball of the jacket and tossed it to his father. “What you about, Tommy?” the cook demanded. “Is you goin’ t’ swim?”