THE SINKING OF THE KARLUK 
87 
was near at hand when we should have to leave the 
ship. We must have things ready. I gave orders 
to get the snow off the deck and the skylights and 
the outer walls of the cabin, to lighten her. Some 
of the men were sent over to the box-house to re¬ 
move the few dogs that were still tethered there 
and set them free on the ice, and to get the house 
ready in case we had to move into it. They cleaned 
it up, put fresh boards on the floor and laid a fire in 
the stove, ready for lighting. 
The men worked with good spirit and seemed 
unperturbed. I sent them about their daily tasks, 
as usual, so far as possible, and the preparation of 
the box-house was in the nature of an emergency 
drill. For if the points of the ice should continue 
unbroken the ship would still be saved; we had 
seen plenty of cracks before in our drift that had 
remained open some time and then closed up again, 
though of course no previous break had come so 
near the ship. It was hard to see what was going 
on around us for the sky was overcast and the dark¬ 
ness was the kind which, as the time-honored 
phrase goes, you could cut with a knife, while the 
stinging snowdrift, whirling and eddying through 
the air, under the impetus of the screaming gale, 
added to the uncertainty as to what was about to 
happen from moment to moment. 
At about half past seven in the evening I 
