But it was a snail's race, for the task of moving the sled had devolved entirely upon Cabot, White having all he could do to drag himself along.

Each step gave him such exquisite pain that, by the time they had accomplished a couple of miles, he was crawling on hands and knees.
Still, as Cabot hopefully pointed out, the Newfoundland coast was in plain sight, and the ice held as firm as ever.

He had hardly spoken when there came a distant roaring, that quickly developed into a sound of crashing and grinding not to be mistaken.
"The ice is moving!" gasped White.
"Then," said Cabot bravely, "we'll move too.

Come on, old man.

We'll leave the sled, and I'll get you ashore even if I have to carry you.
It isn't so very far now." With this the speaker disengaged his hauling straps and turned to assist his comrade, but, to his dismay, the latter lay on the ice pale and motionless.