"Na, he's a cooard!" cried Watty viciously,--"a lang, ugly cooard! Makking a show o' gooing up aloft, and all the time had to be held on." "You'd better not let him hear you say that, my lad, or he'll thrash you." "Yah! not he!" whined the boy. "He's a cooard, that's what he is; and he's on deck waiting to be ane of the fust to go off in the boots, and I'm kep' doon here." "Stop that row!" cried the cook viciously. "I canna, I canna! Awm thenking aboot my mither!" "Bo! you great goose! And nice and proud your mither' must be of such a booby." "But I dinna want to be drooned!" sobbed Watty. "Then what are you drooning yourself for in hot water? It don't improve you a bit, only shows white streaks on your dirty face. Look here, if you don't stop that noise, I'll tell the captain when we take to the boats that you're not worth saving, and then he'll leave you behind." "Tell him to leave him behind!" whined Watty. "He's no good." "Listeners never hear any good of themselves," said Steve to himself as he walked aft, and then made for the way down to the engine-room. "But do I always have my hands in my pockets?" In spite of the cold, darkness, danger, and dread the boy could not help smiling at himself and the force of habit; for at that moment there was a heavy shock caused by a loose mass of ice striking the vessel just on her sharp stem, and startled into the belief that something terrible was about to happen, Steve answered the question he had just asked himself about his hands by snatching them from his pockets to lay hold of the vessel's side. Then as he looked over and saw the piece of ice--a large fragment that must have been many tons in weight--grinding along by the vessel's side, he could not help laughing, while directly after a thrill of delight shot through him and the men sent up a cheer. For a communication had passed between the captain and the engine-room as a loud hissing noise was heard; and then, as an order was shouted to the man at the wheel, the _Hvalross_ quivered in every timber with a peculiar vibration. The steam was up at last; the fans of the propeller were spinning round and churning up the icy water, and the _Hvalross_ backed away from the dangerous position. "There, Andra!" cried Steve, as he approached the man who had just hauled up one of the wooden fenders ground down into a mass of ragged fibres, "what do you say to the steam now?" "Joost naething, laddie. I'd hae done it better wi' hairf a capfu' o' wint." "But there was no wind!" cried Steve. "Nae, there was nae wint. But it's a blessing we're awa frae the ice, for it would hae maist broke my hairt to hae left my pipes ahint." CHAPTER SEVEN. THE LONELY ISLE.