cautiously picked my way across the berg toward the other side,
hoping that our fishing craft had righted itself.

Dared I think it possible that my father still lived? It was but
a ray of hope that flamed up in my heart. But the anticipation
warmed my blood in my veins and started it rushing like some rare
stimulant through every fiber of my body.

I crept close to the precipitous side of the iceberg, and peered
far down, hoping, still hoping. Then I made a circle of the berg,
scanning every foot of the way, and thus I kept going around and
around. One part of my brain was certainly becoming maniacal,
while the other part, I believe, and do to this day, was
perfectly rational.

I was conscious of having made the circuit a dozen times, and
while one part of my intelligence knew, in all reason, there was
not a vestige of hope, yet some strange fascinating aberration
bewitched and compelled me still to beguile myself with
expectation. The other part of my brain seemed to tell me that
while there was no possibility of my father being alive, yet, if
I quit making the circuitous pilgrimage, if I paused for a single
moment, it would be acknowledgment of defeat, and, should I do
this, I felt that I should go mad. Thus, hour after hour I walked
around and around, afraid to stop and rest, yet physically
powerless to continue much longer. Oh! horror of horrors! to be
cast away in this wide expanse of waters without food or drink,
and only a treacherous iceberg for an abiding place. My heart
sank within me, and all semblance of hope was fading into black
despair.