116 A YEAR WITH A WHALER 



ing ahead through his glasses into the mist. The 

 sailors and boat-steerers crowded the forward 

 rails, peering vainly into the swirling fog. Big 

 Foot Louis bent forward with his hand shielding 

 his eyes from the falling snow. 



"Land, land!" he cried. 



If it were land that Louis saw through the 

 clouds and blinding snow, it was mighty close. 

 Our doom seemed sealed. We expected the ship 

 to crash bows-on upon the rocks. We nerved 

 ourselves for the shock. A momentary vision of 

 shipwreck on those bleak coasts in snow and 

 storm obsessed me. But Louis's eyes had de- 

 ceived him. The ship went riding on its stately 

 way through the blinding snow before the gale. 



The situation was ticklish, if not critical. We 

 had been headed squarely for the passage before 

 the storm closed down. Now we could not see 

 where we were going. If we held directly upon 

 our course we were safe. If the gale blew us 

 even slightly out of our way, shipwreck and 

 death on the rock-bound shore awaited us. 

 Which would it be? 



Mr. Winchester was a man of iron nerve. He 



