Lower, and still lower. Water splashed cold against my face, and choked the good-by I was about to utter. Then came another splash, and another—then a great cold stream, and then—— A sharp grating above—a roaring of waters all about—a lifting—a tossing—and a burst of something that brought me suddenly upright to God’s daylight, and the fresh salt air of Bottle Bay! Behind us, the rising tide was roaring into the opening of the tunnel, that was now open and now closed by the billows. Our boat was more than half filled with water and we were choking and gasping, but above us was blue sky, and before us, not two hundred yards away, our stanch, our noble, our beautiful Billowcrest. Somebody was on deck. Somebody with a peaked fur hood—somebody who gave a great shout that brought others from everywhere. And a moment later we were on board—welcomed by those who loved us! “Biff,” said Gale, as he greeted him, “have you got up steam?” “A little, and I can get up a good deal more in five minutes.” “Well, get her up, and let’s pull out of here, quick!” Then turning to me: “Come, Nick, break away there, and let’s get these wet clothes off while Johnnie’s looking after something extra for dinner. I told you we’d get here in time.” XXXVIII. STORM AND STRESS. Upon our voyage to the north I shall not dwell. I have neither the time nor the willingness to do so. The memory of those days is weird and depressing. I would cover with all speed the place they occupy in this history. From Bottle Bay we followed the great salt current eastward, as we did not believe it possible to work northward against it. For two days all went well, and we found happiness in our reunion and homeward progress. Then all the joyless misery of Antarctic lands and seas seemed to gather and shut us in. For five weeks through this blinding fog, crashing ice, and imminent, sleep-destroying peril we crept, and toiled, and struggled, and battled our way toward open water. For days we did not remove our clothing to rest, but lay down ready for instant action, whether to save or desert the ship. Depression seized upon us all. Edith Gale was ill much of the time and lost her appreciation of the beauties of nature. Even Gale himself found it hard to create cheer through this grim period. During moments of comparative calm he wandered about with his hands in his pockets, trying to whistle, but it was a dismal tune.