Already, though he had been rowing hardly more than two hours, he was tired, with wrists hot and heavy, and his forearms cramping. And Martin himself must feel it after a day or two. Much as he had heard of these iron men, these deep-sea trawlers, they could not last it out forever. And God! suppose they were heading out across the Atlantic--and could even Martin say they were not, with no sun or stars to guide him? Would it be slow starvation? And why was it, now he thought of it, he wasn’t famished? Twenty-eight hours already without food! Ah, was that why Martin buckled his own belt about his stomach--buckled it tight and made him drink the last of the water? Surely, if nothing else came, that would come--the slow starvation. Or would it be just madness? How unreal it all was! One--two--three--four--the chafing of the oars came to him as if from some other dory in the distance. So certain was he that the noise was not made by himself and Martin that he stopped and listened. “What’s it, lad?” “Isn’t there another dory somewhere near, Martin?” “Maybe--there’s no tellin’, it’s so thick,” answered Martin aloud, but to himself, “Already,” and shook his head sorrowfully. The lad, after a moment or two of listening, came to see how he had misled himself. He resumed his examination of Martin’s back--the regular bend and heave he noticed. He could not see the face, but he knew the calm set of eyes and jaw. What a man! But even Martin would have to go, too, and when they would be found, even Martin, the iron man, would be stiff and cold also, as others had been found before him. But so few were found! And why weren’t they found! Capsized and drowned. That was it--or was it that they went crazy and jumped overboard? He pictured that--the sudden dropping of the everlasting oars, the last wild cry, the dive over the gunnel. He wondered would it be that way with himself. He looked about, his first long look, and noted the sea. He certainly never had imagined the sea as it was now--not nearly so rough as on the day before--almost smooth, in fact, as if beaten down with the weight of snow which lay upon it like--like what? He had seen that often, of course--the new-fallen snow on land. But nothing like this--the cold gray waste hidden until all was white. What was it like now, that white covering? Oh, yes--why had he not thought of it before?--like the white sheet they sometimes drew over dead people. “Martin!” he called out then. “Aye?” “Isn’t it awful?” “’Tis--in a way. ’Tis solemn, boy. Here we are hid away--a vessel could be fifty feet away and we not see her. She could be twenty feet away and she not see us--we’re that white. But there’s a consolation--the thicker it comes the sooner it’ll stop.” “Then this should stop soon.”