“There it is to starboard!” exclaimed the Doctor.  Careful backing and steering to starboard brought merely the disclosure that the Doctor’s eye-strain had developed to the point where it produced optical illusions.

The oxygen was all this time dwindling.  To avoid further waste of time, Dave told his first mate to close his eyes for three minutes while he kept watch, then to open them and “spell” him at the watch.

“Straight ahead!  Quick!” muttered the mate, as the dial hung fluttering at zero.

Seizing a lever here and there, watching this gauge, then that one, Dave sent the craft slanting upward.  Like some dark sea monster seeking air, the “sub” shot toward the opening.

And now—­now the prow tilted through space.  Another lever and another, and she balanced for a second on the surface.  For a second only, then came a crash.  Too much eagerness, too great haste, had sent the conning-tower against the solid six-foot floe.

With lips straight and white Dave grasped two levers at once.  The craft shot backward.  There followed a sickening grind which could only tell of interference with the propeller.  Too quick a reverse had sent it against the ice astern.  Shutting off all power, Dave allowed her to rise silently to the surface.  Then, as silently, one member of the crew opened the hatch and they all filed out.

“Propeller’s still there,” breathed one of the gobs in relief.

“’Fraid that won’t help,” said Dave.

“Jarvis,” he said, turning to the engineer, “go below and start her up at lowest speed.”

In a moment there followed a jangling grind.

The engineer reappeared.

“As I feared, sir,” he reported.  “It’s the shaft, sir.  She’ll have to go to shore for repairs.  Only a hot fire and heavy hammering can fix her.  Can’t be done on board or on the ice.”

“Ashore!” Dave rubbed his forehead, pulled his forelock, and tried to imagine which way land might be after ten hours of travel in the uncharted waters of the great Arctic sea.

“I’ll leave it to you, Jarvis,” he smiled.  “If you can locate land, and show us how to get there across these piles of ice with a disabled submarine, you shall have a medal from the National Geographic Society.”

The engineer was not a gob, strictly speaking.  He was an old English seaman, who had often sailed the Arctic in a whaler.  Now he went below with the words: 

“I’ll find the nearest land, right enough, me lad; but as to gittin’ there, that’s quite another matter.”

Thereafter the engineer might be seen from time to time dashing up the hatchway to take an observation, then back to the chart-table, where he examined first this chart, then that one.  Some of the charts were new, just from the hands of the hydrographic bureau.  These belonged to the craft.  Others were soiled and torn; patched here and there, or reinforced by cloth from a discarded shirt.  These belonged to Jarvis, himself; had been with him on many a journey and were now most often consulted.