When night came on, there came with it a deepening sense of loneliness
and isolation. The night was also very cold, the chill penetrated our
thin clothing, and we were compelled to row the boat to keep ourselves,
not warm, but a little less cold. The icebergs coming down on the Arctic
Current hold the season back, and early June on the Banks is much like
April on the Massachusetts coast. We tried to sleep lying down in the
bottom of the boat with our heads in a trawl tub, but we were stiff with
cold, the boat leaked badly, and it was necessary to get up frequently
and bail out the water. The thought also that we might drift within
sight or sound of a vessel, or within sight of a trawl buoy, made us
afraid to sleep.

The night finally wore away, the second day and night were like the
first, the third like the first and second and the fourth day like
another "cycle of Cathay." These four days and nights were like solitary
confinement to the prisoner, the grim monotony and lack of incident
contributing to the cumulative effect and accentuating the sense of
helplessness and isolation. There was nothing to relieve the situation.
We were like an army lying in trenches in the face of the enemy, waiting
for the enemy's move.

The fourth night we were startled by the sound of the fog horn of a
sailing vessel. The wind was blowing almost a gale. We listened to get
the direction, then sprang to the oars and rowed hard to intercept her,
shouting, listening, rowing with all our strength, and willing, if need
be, to be run down, in the chance of being seen and rescued. The horn
finally sounded so near that it seemed that we could almost see the
vessel, and we felt sure that they could hear our call. But our hearts
sank as the sounds grew fainter and soon we were alone again with the