“No, not that way. He’s just master o’ th’ ship. Your folks is payin’ th’ owners for th’ voyage, an’ they is payin’ th’ skipper t’ run th’ ship safe, an’ he has t’ make rules t’ run un safe or we’d be foulin’ reefs or gettin’ off our course.” Paul deigned no reply, and after an awkward pause Dan inquired: “What’s your name?” “Paul Densmore.” “Mine’s Dan Rudd. Dan’s short for Dan’l. It’s after Dan’l that was in th’ lion’s den, Dad says. Yours is from th’ Bible, too. I reckon you was named after th’ apostle Paul.” “No, after my grandfather.” “’Tis th’ same name, anyway. Dad reads out o’ th’ Bible nights when he’s home. We live in Ragged Cove, but Dad’s fishin’ down on th’ Labrador now with th’ _Ready Hand_.” “The ‘_Ready Hand_?’ What’s that?” “She’s a spry little schooner. Dad’s part owner. I been down with her twice.” Dan told of fishing adventures on the Labrador. Paul described his home in New York, the great buildings, the subway and elevated railroads, the great transatlantic steamships--a thousand wonders in which Dan was intensely interested. In the recital Paul soon forgot his injured dignity. He was glad of the companionship of a boy of his own age. No one, indeed, could long resist Dan’s good nature, and when the sailor lad finally said it was time to “turn in,” and they parted for the night, each was pleased with his new acquaintance--an acquaintanceship that was to ripen into life-long friendship. They little guessed that they were destined to be companions in many adventures, to share many hardships, to face dangers and even death together. The _North Star_ rounded Cape Charles the following evening, passed into the open Atlantic, and turned her prow northward. Innumerable icebergs, many of fantastic form and stupendous proportions, were visible from the deck, their blue-green pinnacles reflecting the rays of the setting sun in a glory of prismatic colors. On their port lay the low, storm-scoured rocks of Labrador’s dreary coast, its broken line marked by many stranded icebergs. Now and again a distant whale spouted great columns of water. The white sail of a fishing schooner, laboring northward, was visible upon the horizon. The scene, grim, rugged, but beautiful, appealed to Paul’s imagination as the most wonderful and entrancing he had ever beheld. That night Paul was suddenly awakened from sound slumber by a tremendous shock. He sprang from his berth with the thought that the ship had struck a reef or iceberg and might be sinking. Terrified, he rushed to the companionway, where he was nearly thrown off his feet by another shock. At length he reached the deck. Spread everywhere around the ship he could see, in the shimmering moonlight, nothing but ice. From the crow’s nest, on the mizzenmast, came the call of the ice pilot: “Port! Starboard! Port! Starboard!”