us: we tried to keep an offing, but it was no use; we
couldn't show a rag; every thing was blown away, and it was perishing
cold; but our captain was a smart man, and he said,--'Well, boys, we
must run for Hangman's Cove,[3] altho' it's late in the day; if we
don't, I won't answer where we'll be in the morning."

[3] Hangman's Cove, a small harbour on the west side of Davis's
Straits.

"So up we put the helm, sir, to run for a place like a hole in a wall,
with nothing but a close-reefed topsail set, and the sky as thick as
pea-soup. It looked a bad job, I do assure you, sir. Just as it was
dark, we found ourselves right up against the cliffs, and we did not
know whether we were lost or saved until by good luck we shot into dead
smooth water in a little cove, and let go our anchor. Next day a calm
set in, and the young ice made round the ship: we couldn't cut it, and
we couldn't tow the vessel through it. We had not three months'
provisions, and we made certain sure of being starved to death; when
the wind came strong off the land, and, by working for our lives, we
escaped, and went home directly out of the country."

"A cheering tale, this, of the Hangman's Cove," I thought, as I turned
from my Job's comforter; and, satisfying myself that the pack precluded
all chance of reaching Leopold Island for the present, I retired to
rest.

[Headnote: _STEAMING UP BARROWS STRAIT._]

Next day, the 27th of August, found us steering past Cape Hurd, off
which the pack lay at a distance of some ten miles, and, as we ran
westward, and the breadth of clear water gradually diminished, the wind
failed us; although, astern in Lancaster Sound, there was still a dark
and angry sky betokening a war of the elements, whereas where we were
off Radstock Bay--all was calm, cold, and arctic.

"Up steam, and take in tow!" was again the cry; and as the pack, acted
on by the tide, commenced to travel quickly in upon Cape Ricketts, we
slipped past it, and reached an elbow formed between that headland and
Beechey Island. The peculiar patch of broken table-land, called
Caswell's Tower, as well as the striking cliffs of slaty limestone
along whose base we were rapidly steaming, claimed much of our
attention; and we were pained to see, from the strong ice-blink to the
S.W., that a body of packed ice had been driven up the straits by the
late gales.

The sun was fast dipping behind North Devon, and a beautiful moon (the
first we had fou