“Forward, there!” I shouted at the top of my voice; and with, one bound I readied the main hatch, and began to clear away the ship’s cutter.  Mr. Larkin had received the glass from my hand to take a look for himself.

“O, pitiful sight!” he said in a whisper, as he set to work to aid me in getting out the boat; “there are two children on that cake of ice!”

In a very short space of time we launched the cutter, into which Mr. Larkin and myself jumped, followed by two men, who took the oars.  I held the tiller, and the mate sat beside me.

“Do you see that cake of ice with something black upon it, lads?” I cried; “put me alongside of that, and I will give you a month’s extra wages when you are paid off.”

The men were worn out by the hard duty of the preceding fortnight; and, though they did their best, the boat made little more way than the tide.  This was a long chase; and Mr. Larkin, who was suffering as he saw how little we gained, cried out—­

“Pull, lads—­I’ll double the captain’s prize.  Pull, lads, for the sake of mercy, pull!”

A convulsive effort at the oars told how willing the men were to obey, but their strength was gone.  One of the poor fellows splashed us twice in recovering his oar, and then gave out; the other was nearly as far gone.  Mr. Larkin sprung forward and seized the deserted oar.

“Lie down in the bottom of the boat,” said he to the man; “and, captain, take the other oar; we must row for ourselves.”  I took the second man’s place.

Larkin had stripped to his Guernsey shirt; as he pulled the bow I waited the signal stroke.  It came gently, but firmly; and the next moment we were pulling a long, steady stroke, gradually increasing in rapidity until the wood seemed to smoke in the oar-locks.

We kept time with each other by our long, deep breathing.  Such a pull!  At every stroke the boat shot ahead like an arrow.  Thus we worked at the oars for fifteen minutes—­it seemed to me as many hours.

“Have we almost come to it, Mr. Larkin?” I asked.

“Almost, captain,—­don’t give up:  for the love of our dear little ones at home, don’t give up, captain,” replied Larkin.

The oars flashed as the blades turned up to the moonlight.  The men who plied them were fathers, and had fathers’ hearts; the strength which nerved them at that moment was more than human.

Suddenly Mr. Larkin stopped pulling, and my heart for a moment almost ceased its beating; for the terrible thought that he had given out crossed my mind.  But I was quickly reassured by his saying—­

“Gently, captain, gently—­a stroke or two more—­there, that will do”—­and the next moment the boat’s side came in contact with something.

Larkin sprung from the boat upon the ice.  I started up, and, calling upon the men to make fast the boat to the ice, followed.

We ran to the dark spot in the centre of the mass, and found two little boys—­the head of the smaller nestling in the bosom of the larger.  Both were fast asleep!