With what anxiety those on the _Good Hope_ watched her, may be imagined. Their eyes fairly burned as they regarded the race of their rescuers against the fire which raged below them. For the two holes cut by Rob and Merritt, while they had had the good effect of attracting aid, had also had a less gratifying result. Through them the air had been transmitted to the flaming mass below, and flames were now shooting up through them and enlarging the openings every instant. The air grew so fearfully hot that all were compelled to beat a retreat to the extreme stern of the _Good Hope_. Little was said as the yacht rounded up as close to the burning ship as she dared, and lowered a boat. By this time clouds of black smoke, shot with livid flames, were shooting skyward above the doomed craft. It was a fortunate thing for the castaways that no wind was stirring or this story might have had a different termination. The boat was manned by sailors in white duck clothes and was guided by a lad wearing the Boy Scout uniform. As soon as they saw this the boys gave the cry of the Eagle Patrol. As the long drawn "Kree-ee-ee!" died out, the boy in the stern stood erect and gave the Scout salute. Then followed a long-drawn, growling shout: "How-oo-oo-oo!" "That's the cry of one of the Wolf Patrols!" cried Merritt. "Yes; and that boy is a Wolf," declared Rob. "Well, at all events he comes in sheep's clothing," the ensign could not resist saying. The next instant the boat was under the stern and the rescued castaways were sliding down a rope into it. Hardly a word was spoken while this was going on; the work in hand was too important. But hardly had they all found places before, in an earnest voice, the ensign exclaimed: "Pull for your lives, men; spare no time." "Why, you are safe enough now," declared the Wolf Scout. "Far from it," declared the young officer seriously, "the log book of that craft spoke of dynamite on board. They used it to blast their way out of the polar ice. I think----" A terrific concussion that threw them all from their seats interrupted him. Then came a blinding flash, and this in turn was followed by an explosion that seemed to shake the sea. "Pull for your lives!" shouted the ensign to the alarmed sailors. Dazed as they were, they lost no time in doing so, but even then fragments of blazing wood and red-hot metal rained about them in a downpour of great danger. Luckily, however, none of the blazing fragments struck the boat. As soon as they recovered their faculties, the boys gazed back at the spot where the _Good Hope_ had last been seen. There was not a trace of her. The dynamite had literally blown the ill-fated whaler out of existence. Only oily pools remained on the surface to show the spot of her vanishing. "I can easily see that you chaps have been through some thrilling experiences," remarked the Wolf boy, whose name proved to be Donald Grant, attached to the Wolf Patrol of the 14th New York City Troop.