CHAPTER XI. 
We left the American expedition on the threshold 
of the ice of Melville Bay, immovably fixed, to all 
appearance, in the middle pack. I promised at that 
time to describe the sort of efforts that vrere making 
for its release ; hut I shall do better, perhaps, by giv- 
ing a general view of what one of the figures of speech 
allows us to call ice navigation. To those who pre- 
fer a more specific form of narrative, I give the choice 
of dates from the 8th to the 29th of July, and permit 
them to he assured that they are reading the story of 
our progress for the day they have chosen. 
Let us begin by imagining a vessel, or, for variety, 
two of them, speeding along at eight knots an hour, 
and heading directly for a long, low margin of ice 
about two miles off. “D’ye see any opening?” cries 
the captain, hailing an officer on the foretopsail-yard. 
“Something like ‘a lead’ a little to leeward of that 
iceberg on our port-bow.” In a little while we near 
the ice ; our light sails are got in, our commander 
taking the place of the officer, who has resumed his 
station on the deck. 
Before you, in a plain of solid ice, is a huge iceberg, 
and near it a black, zigzag canal, checkered with re- 
cent fragments. 
Now commences the process of “ conning.” Such 
work with the helm is not often seen in ordinary seas. 
The brig’s head is pointed for the open gap ; the watch 
