"'Fraid that won't help," said Dave.

"Jarvis," he said, turning to the engineer, "go below and start her up at
lowest speed."

In a moment there followed a jangling grind.

The engineer reappeared.

"As I feared, sir," he reported. "It's the shaft, sir. She'll have to go
to shore for repairs. Only a hot fire and heavy hammering can fix her.
Can't be done on board or on the ice."

"Ashore!" Dave rubbed his forehead, pulled his forelock, and tried to
imagine which way land might be after ten hours of travel in the
uncharted waters of the great Arctic sea.

"I'll leave it to you, Jarvis," he smiled. "If you can locate land, and
show us how to get there across these piles of ice with a disabled
submarine, you shall have a medal from the National Geographic Society."

The engineer was not a gob, strictly speaking. He was an old English
seaman, who had often sailed the Arctic in a whaler. Now he went below
with the words:

"I'll find the nearest land, right enough, me lad; but as to gittin'
there, that's quite another matter."

Thereafter the engineer might be seen from time to time dashing up the
hatchway to take an observation, then back to the chart-table, where he