“Do you think many are lost?”

“I knows of seven gone down, but there may be more for all I know.  Some that ran for home would get nabbed on the Winterton or the Scrowby.”  “Up with our flag, skipper, and see about the boat.”  Ferrier knew that his task would soon be upon him, and he helped like a Titan, with axe and pick, to clear away the ice.  A spell of two hours’ labour, and the expenditure of dozens of kettles of hot water, freed the boat, and she was put out, regardless of the chance of losing her. (By the way, the men care very little about a boat’s being swamped so long as the painter holds.  I have seen three go under astern of one vessel during the delivery of fish.  The little incident only caused laughter.)

The chapter of casualties was enough to curdle the blood of any one but a doctor—­a doctor with perfect nerve and training.  All kinds of violent exertions had been used to save the vessels, and men had toiled with sacks sewn round their boots to avoid slipping on a glassy surface which froze like a mirror whenever it was exposed for a few seconds to the air between the onrushes of successive waves.  Ferrier carried his life in his hand for three days as he went from vessel to vessel; the sea was unpleasant; the risk involved in springing over icy bulwarks on to slippery decks was miserable, and the most awkward operations had to be performed at times when it needed dexterity merely to keep a footing.  One man had the calf of his leg taken clean away by a topmast which came down like a falling spear; the frost had caught the desperate wound before Ferrier came on the scene, and the poor mortal was near his last.  The young man saw that the leg must go; he had never ventured to think of such a contingency as this, and his strained nerve well-nigh failed him.  A grim little conversation took place in the cabin between the skipper, the doctor, and the patient.  I let the talk explain itself, so that people may understand that Ferrier’s proposed hospital was not demanded by a mere faddist.  The man was stretched on a moderately clean tablecloth laid on the small open space in the close dog-hutch below; a dull pallor appeared to shine from underneath, and glimmered through the bronze of the skin.  He was sorely failed, poor fellow.  The skipper stood there—­dirty, unkempt, grim, compassionate.  Ferrier put away a bucket full of stained muslin rags (he had tried his best to save the limb), and then he said softly, “Now, my son, I think I can save you; but you must take a risk.  We can’t send you home; I can’t take you with me until we get a turn of smooth water; if I leave you as you are, there is no hope.  Do you consent to have the leg taken off?”

“Better chance it, Frank, my boy.  I dursn’t face your old woman if I go home without you.”

“Will it give me a chance?  Can I stand the pain?”

“You’ll have no pain.  You’ll never know, and it all depends upon afterwards.”