The only man not busy was Andrew McByle, and Steve hurried to him. "Think we shall get off safely, Andra?" he whispered, as a piece of one of the spars gave forth a dismal, groaning sound which vibrated through every nerve. "No. She was thenking aboot my pipes, laddie. The skipper's certain to mak' a fuss gin I tak' them wi' me in the boat." "Then you think we shall have to take to the boats?" said Steve excitedly. "Ay, laddie; what else can we do? There's nae wint, not eneuch to turn a weather-cock upon a kirk, and there's nae steam. Piff wi' all your talk aboot the engines to use when there's nae wint! Where are they the noo?" "But they'll soon have the steam up now, Andra." "I dinna believe it. She's fashed wi' your new-fangled rubbish; all weel eneuch in fine weather, but when she want it the puir feckless mairsheennary isn't there." "But you can hear the fire roaring." "Ay, she can hear the great flaming thing burning oop mair coal and mair coal; but it isna fire we want, laddie, but steam." "Yes, it is a long time," sighed Steve. "Do you think we must take to the boats?" "Ay, laddie; if I were skipper I'd joost hae plenty o' food and claes pit upon the ice, and camp there wi' the boats hanging on aboot. We could tak' to them when the ice was a' melted doon, an'--" "Here, hi! lend a hand, my lad!" shouted the mate, and Andrew trotted off, leaving Steve more low-spirited than ever. For it seemed so terrible, just on the threshold of an exciting voyage, in which he had painted to himself plenty of sport and adventure, ending in the discovery of his uncle and the men who had been his companions. All had gone wrong, and he felt that they would have to accept their failure, and try to get back to the nearest Norwegian port, a terribly dangerous journey in an open boat. And now, more than ever, he felt the want of some companionship, and, with a feeling of regret, he thought of the one nearest to him in years. "They're all men," he said to himself, "and I'm only a boy. They don't think about me. Wish I hadn't kicked poor old Watty." As he thought this he walked to the door of the galley and looked in, to find that the cook was rating the boy of whom he had been thinking. "What!" he was saying; "want to go and be ready to take to the boats? You stay where you are till you're wanted. They won't leave us behind. Such a fuss about getting up a bit of steam; why, I'd have made that water boil an hour ago if I'd had it to do. They don't know how to manage it!" "Ow--!" This was a dismal beginning of a howl from Watty. "Here, stop that, you miserable Highland calf! You've got breeches on, so I suppose you're a boy! Do you suppose an English lad would make that row? I'll be bound to say Mr Steve Young's somewhere aft, with his hands in his pockets as usual, looking on as cool as a cucumber."