“Nothing much, except that there is ice ahead.”

“Bergs?”

“Yes, and growlers too, and field ice maybe. The Seneca reports it.”

Raynor looked about him in a puzzled way.

“But we haven’t slowed down,” he said at length.

“That’s just it. Captain Briggs is a drinking man. He is drinking to-night and reckless. He means to keep right on this way.”

“Why, that’s madness. At any minute——”

“That’s just what Mr. Mulliner says. But what are we going to do? You know as well as I do that the skipper’s word is law at sea.”

Raynor perched himself on the rail, balancing there high above the water, a favorite position with him.

“I wish you’d brace your legs when you do that,” remarked Jack. “If there was a sudden lurch or anything you’d go right overboard, and nothing could save you. I’ve spoken to you a dozen times about it and——”

“I know you have, you croaking old land-lubber,” laughed Raynor, “it’s alright. As for danger, if you could see me lying in the crank-pit, with the big steel throws smashing round within half an inch of my nose I guess you’d be worried then.”

“No, I wouldn’t, because that’s your business and you know what you’re doing,” responded Jack, “but balancing like that’s just pure foolhardiness.”

“So there’s ice ahead?” said Raynor, ignoring Jack’s protest.

“That’s the report. They’re testing the temperature of the water on the bridge. It’s falling all the time.”

“Well, what does that amiable maniac Briggs think he’s going to do, knock a berg out of his way if he hits it?”

“No; he figures in his muddled brain that by keeping up full speed he can pass to the south of the path of the bergs. In other words, he’s racing them.”

“And if he loses the race there’ll be a most almighty smash-up.”

“That’s it. I—— What in the name of time is that?”

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