As each came rolling on the sea, our hearts would bound.
Up to that moment, "The Curlew" had not been taken; but perhaps that shot had struck down her sails.
It was now half-past two.

The vessels could hardly be less than twenty or twenty-five miles off.

But there is nothing to absorb or deaden sound along those straits.
"Yes; where's your fuel ?" demanded Wade.
We looked around: plenty of rocks, ice, and water, with a little coarse dirt, or gravel.
"Might burn the boat," Kit suggested.
"That seems too bad," said Raed.

"Besides, how are we to get off the island here, supposing 'The Curlew' should not come back?
or even suppose she should?
She has no other boat." "And we may want to go off to the other islands," I said.
"Well, if anybody can suggest anything better, I should like to hear it," replied Kit.

"I don't want to burn the boat, I'm sure; but I can't see anything else that looks inflammable." Neither could any of us, though we looked all around us very earnestly; till Donovan suddenly cried out,-- "Why not burn the old sea-horse ?" "Why, that's our victuals!" laughed Kit.
"I know it; but fire comes before victuals, unless you eat 'em raw like the Huskies." "Will it burn ?" Raed asked.
"Burn?
yes.