The fate of this vessel, which might so soon be their own, threw a
momentary gloom over the crew of the _Dolphin_, but their position left
them no time for thought. One upturned mass rose above the gunwale,
smashed in the bulwarks, and deposited half a ton of ice on deck.
Scarcely had this danger passed when a new enemy appeared in sight
ahead. Directly in their way, just beyond the line of floe-ice against
which they were alternately thumping and grinding, lay a group of bergs.
There was no possibility of avoiding them, and the only question was,
whether they were to be dashed to pieces on their hard blue sides, or,
perchance, in some providential nook to find a refuge from the storm.

"There's an open lead between them and the floe-ice," exclaimed Bolton
in a hopeful tone of voice, seizing an ice-pole and leaping on the
gunwale.

"Look alive, men, with your poles," cried the captain, "and shove with a
will!"

The "Ay, ay, sir," of the men was uttered with a heartiness that showed
how powerfully this gleam of hope acted on their spirits; but a new damp
was cast over them when, on gaining the open passage, they discovered
that the bergs were not at rest, but were bearing down on the floe-ice
with slow but awful momentum, and threatening to crush the ship between
the two. Just then a low berg came driving up from the southward,
dashing the spray over its sides, and with its forehead ploughing up
the smaller ice as if in scorn. A happy thought flashed across the
captain's mind.

"Down the quarter boat," he cried.